


Line of Durin Sides

by Judayre



Series: Line of Durin [2]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Dori is a mother even though he's male, Dwarves do not mpreg, Gen, Mentions of child neglect and abuse in chapter 6, Shorts and sides, Stories should have morals, Thorin is not subtle, but the situation is complicated, chapter 6 also mentions alcoholism, khuzdul as a second language, more tags added as needed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-22
Updated: 2013-12-03
Packaged: 2017-12-03 06:13:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 46
Words: 41,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/695116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Judayre/pseuds/Judayre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bits and extras either alluded to or requested from Line of Durin.  (Hence the title.  I'm bad at titles.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Messenger

**Author's Note:**

> While I work out the chapter after the battle in the main story, have a bit of amusement.

Legolas was past the cell when the deep, gruff voice called out "Elf!" He paused a moment, because none of the prisoners except Kíli and Thorin had spoken. Then he started moving again.

"Elf!" Hopefully one of the guards would see to it soon.

"You poncy blond streak of nothing, turn around!"

Legolas turned on his heel. "Excuse me?"

"You're excused, now come here." It was the tallest of the Dwarves. The bald one with tattoos all over his head and hands.

Wary but curious, Legolas moved closer.

"You know Kíli?"

He nodded.

"Give him a message from me."

"I am not your errand runner," Legolas said angrily. But he was curious, so he didn't stalk away just yet.

"Whatever you say. Just tell him that Bofur is with me and we're both okay. Got that? Bofur is with me and we're fine."

Legolas nodded in spite of himself, and the Dwarf nodded in return. "Go on, now. You have a message to deliver!"

Dwarves! What went on in their strange, rocky brains?


	2. The Day You Were Taken From Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one time Fíli ever saw his mother cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The other already written bit. Mentioned in chapter 8 when Fíli tells Kíli about their mother.

Fíli crept into his mother's room, almost frightened at the silence in the house. Weren't babies supposed to be loud? She was there in bed, as she'd been when uncle Thorin had taken him to Balin's house, but now she was sitting up in bed and crying. He climbed onto the bed and threw himself at her, small arms around her middle. "Mama, what's wrong? Where's the baby?"

Dís just sobbed afresh and held him tight, leaning into Dwalin's strong arms. "He's gone away."

"Like uncle Thorin?" Fíli asked. "When will he be back?"

It was Dwalin who answered, stroking Fíli's golden hair and turning to kiss the top of Dís' head. "He won't be, lad." And his voice was as full of sorrow as Dís'.

Fíli's eyes widened. His little brother, who he'd been waiting for for months, was gone forever? But he had waited patiently! He had been good! He wanted to teach his brother how to play and do his letters and fight with sticks! How could his brother be gone?

The little boy clung to his mother's skirts and joined her in crying. And all Dwalin could do was hold them in his arms and hope that time would dull their pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not directly mentioned, but perhaps apparent, Fíli has spent his entire life thinking his baby brother was stillborn. Finding him was the most amazing miracle possible.


	3. Mirkwood Dungeon #1 - Nori and Glóin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Nori is a thief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nori owes quite a lot to greenkangeroo and Thorinsmut. "Dirty Deeds (Done Dirt Cheap)" and "your Axe to my throat, my Knife to yours" are wonderful and you should read them.

The Elves didn't leave guards overnight, and that was their first mistake. At least it was their first unique mistake, since no jail Nori had been in had ever thought of checking his braids. He kept his back to the door, just in case, and glanced over at Glóin, wondering what the far more honorable Dwarf would think.

But Glóin was still glowering out at nothing, as though that would get them out of the cell. It was enough to make Nori sigh. They were lucky to have him along, really. Kíli had given a clever ruse, but it wasn't enough to keep them out of the cells. No, they needed a clever escape artist, and how lucky it was that they had one.

Glóin took a sudden interest when Nori began to pick the lock. Nori breathed a thanks to the patron of thieves that he kept quiet when asking what Nori was doing.

"Opening this very simple door," was his answer as the lock clicked and the door cracked open. Nori grinned at Glóin. "Since this place is big, I'm just going to get some information today. If anyone comes by, make it look like I'm still here."

He closed the door behind him, going so far as to lock it - just in case! - and pressed himself into the shadows. Ah, finally somewhere he felt comfortable! Silently barefoot, he crept down the hall, listening closely for anyone coming.

"Nori? How did you get out here?"

The thief gave an undignified, if nearly silent, squeal. A knife! He needed to find a way to hide a knife in his hair! Who had found him and how did they know his name and... And where were they, anyway?

"It's Bilbo. I'm invisible." And wasn't that just the way things worked? Nori worked hard for his reputation, and Baggins had stolen his title of thief without even being one. And now he was better at going unseen because he was actually invisible. "I'm working on how to get us out. You should stay out of trouble."

"No trouble, Mister Baggins," Nori said, as heartily as he could. "These Elves couldn't guard a junk pile. I'm just off to find our things."

He nearly shrieked again at the touch to his wrist. "I can bring you to the storage room they're in. But how would you hide any of it?"

Nori grinned like a shark. "My dear, Mister Baggins, that just shows how little you know of thieving. Show me our things and leave the rest to me."

To his pleasure, the Halfling did just that. And to his further pleasure, Glóin turned out to be better at hiding things than he would have expected. Good enough that Nori was able to sneak out during the day on occasion, where a thief's knowledge of any language he might come across became very helpful in figuring out how they would get out of the Elf king's hall.

In the end, by the time they were finally released both Nori and Glóin had fine, full packs to bring with them.


	4. Four Conversations Bofur Had With Thorin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four times that meeting with Thorin changed Bofur's life. Well, three, really. And one time that Thorin was able to help Bofur, for a change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear I'll get back to writing the main fic.
> 
> When I started it, I wasn't sure whose POV it would be in. This is leftover from a time the whole thing would have been through Bofur's eyes.

The Plan

Bofur sipped his beer. The conversation was already too serious for him to quaff it, but there was no sense in letting good beer go to waste, and the things Thorin was telling him required at least a bit of alcohol in his system.

"So you're the heir of Durin," he said when the other finally finished speaking. "And you were part of our caravan five years ago, which means...."

Thorin nodded. He had obviously had some success, because he was far from the desperate renegade he'd been then. He hadn't had enough money for food for his pregnant sister then, let alone enough for beer.

"And there's a new wee one on the way whose safety you fear for."

Another nod. This hadn't been what Bofur had expected when his old friend had grabbed him in the marketplace and asked if he wanted to share a drink. He knew Thorin well enough from their months wandering together to know that he needed help, but this was hardly expected.

Part of him wanted to say no. He had enough responsibility with his brother and cousin. Wanderers made very little. That was no way to raise a child. But they'd been considering finding someplace to settle. And a baby in danger....

He took another drink. "You remember my cousin Bifur?"

That gave Thorin pause. "Is he-- safe?"

"He'd not hurt a young one, if that's what you're asking. Just so you know that what you ask of me you also ask of him and Bombur."

Thorin nodded. "And I'll send money, of course."

"You will not," Bofur answered firmly. "You've that other little one to care for. And someone would notice and wonder. When we take the child, it will be ours."

Thorin looked dismayed, but nodded.

The Exchange

Bofur had become a nightly fixture at the fountain, sitting and whittling through the early hours of the morning. They knew it was soon, but exact dates for births were impossible. Thorin would be there when he was there, and all Bofur could do was wait.

He looked up at the sound of footsteps and instantly put his knife away. Even in a dark cloak, he could recognize Thorin. He stood, letting the other Dwarf come to him, because Thorin had by far the harder task.

As Thorin came closer, Bofur saw the baby. It was wrapped warmly and cradled so gently you would think it was made of glass.

"His name is Kíli." Thorin placed a tender kiss to the boy's forehead and bowed over the tiny body in heartsick pain. Bofur wondered for a moment if the plan would be called off at the last minute.

But the child was put into his arms, held by his uncle like a priceless treasure. And for Dwarves, every child was indeed a priceless treasure. Bofur pulled his own cloak around the baby, remembering the last infant to be placed in his arms.

He nodded and turned to go, but Thorin put a hand on his arm. One hand reached back and Bofur heard the whisper of a clasp opening. Thorin curved his hand around the finely wrought silver clasp and disappeared into the night.

The Gift

"I didn't realize those fiddly little tools would cost so much," Bofur said with a sigh, looking glumly into his drink.

"Tools are always expensive," Thorin answered. "At least the ones worth having. But what kind of tools do you need? You already own mining equipment, don't you?"

"I do. These weren't for me. Bifur is teaching the lad leatherwork. He's so excited about it, I had just hoped...." But no. The winter was always bad for money. Roads got cut off, supplies dwindled. Some days the public house didn't open, and there was nowhere to sell what came out of the mine, so they closed it on occasion.

And when spring came, they needed to buy food, and the lad was still growing and needed new clothes, and their herbs needed replacing after he'd been so sick. Bofur had hoped there was enough squirreled away, but in the end he was only disappointed.

Thorin's face had closed when Kíli was mentioned. "Let me," he said after a moment. "We're doing well enough now to afford them. And a lad should have a good set of tools when he starts a trade."

Bofur was ready to shake his head and move on, but Thorin met his eyes.

"As a secret between the two of us," the heir of Durin begged. "Let me give him this one gift."

And really, how could he say no to that?

The Quest

Bofur didn't know how Thorin had emptied the house, but the quiet in the kitchen was getting to him. They were drinking tea this time, dark and strong and hot, and he honestly didn't think he'd be able to tolerate beer with this errand.

"He'll follow you if you don't let him go, and he'll run away from home if we try to keep him there."

"There's nothing you can say?"

"We've said everything already."

"Tell me about him. Is there any reason I could give that he's not ready? That he isn't fit?"

Bofur barked a laugh. "He's an excellent shot with his bow, he's strong, and he's resourceful. You'd be a fool not to take him." He stared at the dregs of his tea and continued softer. "And you'll have us too."

Thorin stared. "Bofur, it's for Erebor. You don't have to--"

"As if we'd let him go into danger alone. Bombur is as good a cook as you'll get anywhere, and he's stronger than most think. Bifur sees everything and is smarter than any give him credit for since the raid. And I've a strong arm, myself. If we can keep him and you from death, we will do all in our power to."

"It's more than I would ever ask, my friend. You've already done so much."

Bofur smiled tiredly. "If he wants to run off on mad quests, we haven't done enough." He rose and turned to go with a brief bow. As he reached the door he stopped. "Thorin," he said without turning around, "I'll see to it the lad doesn't wear his clasp. But Fíli's matches it, and Kíli can put two and two together as well as anyone else. You make sure there's nothing for him to match together if you still want to keep this secret."

He didn't wait for an answer before leaving.


	5. Prince in Exile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Thorin's heart belongs to his family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously, guys, Thorin's life sucks.

After the dragon, they had nothing but one another. During the wandering years, there was nothing to cling to but family. Which was why Thorin felt like a failure when he realized that he couldn't love his father or grandfather.

Thrór's greed had brought the dragon. He had piled up gold and treasure as if he were a dragon himself, putting the gems above his own people. He spoke of nothing but regaining the mountain, destroying the dragon that had stolen his wealth. _His_ wealth. His _wealth_. As though that was the most important thing lost with Erebor.

Thráin's heart was still in the mountain. He spoke of nothing but what they had lost. The mountain, their kingdom, their power, their wealth, his wife. With everything lost, he didn't have enough patience for the things he had left. For his living children, his people, his own life.

And so Thorin became patriarch of his family, and nominal leader of the exiles, at much too young an age. He was under fifty when the dragon came. Frerin was younger, and Dís just a child, and they both needed someone to cling to who would take care of them. With their mother dead and their father useless - and Thorin felt like such a bad son to even think that! - it fell to Thorin.

It fell to Thorin to find work and make enough coin to feed and clothe them. It fell to Thorin to tend his siblings when they were hurt or sick. It fell to Thorin to decide in what direction to take his family and the refugees of Erebor who stayed with them. It fell to Thorin to deal with Thráin and Thrór when they complained of things that could not be changed.  
And how he hated them for it.

If he could have, he would have retreated. There were days he spent with his cousin Fundin - more uncle than cousin - and his two sons. Balin had often looked out for him while he was training, and Dwalin was almost the same age as Thorin. Time spent with his cousins put the young prince at ease. He could sit and listen while Balin and his father talked strategy, or wrestle with irrepressible Dwalin like the youth he was.

But he was the prince, and no one else could take the responsibility. He always went home.

Were it not for Frerin and Dís, he would have gone crazy. Little Dís, who hardly remembered the mountain after a few years. He wanted so much more for her as she grew, but she never complained of the little they had, of the nights she went hungry, of the times she had to hide away from her grandfather's gold rages. Even when she was too old for it, she would climb into Thorin's lap, or cuddle next to him for comfort. It was Dís who brushed his hair and braided it. She took to cooking, and found she had the knack for it, and prepared the things that her brothers loved best whenever she could.

Frerin, with his love of everything beautiful, was the only one to treat Thorin with anything less than respect. Frerin studied fighting with dark seriousness, black hair twisted into rows of braids that swung around his head, curled around each other, and were as lovely as the paintings left behind to burn with Erebor. He practiced with blue eyes widened with hate, because he hated weapons. He hated the idea of killing, and the necessity of knowing how to for the protection of his family.

But when he wasn't turning death into a beautiful dance, Frerin was the only one to make Thorin smile. He would make a quip, brows raised, when he thought Thorin was getting too serious. And if that didn't work, he would snort at his older brother and call him the most ridiculous of names.

The day Thrór proclaimed that they were going to retake Moria, Thorin could have killed him himself. The ease with which the old king brought their allies together for the battle angered the youth like nothing he could have imagined. With that much influence, why were they still wandering paupers?

But he put on armor, along with Frerin, and followed his grandfather into battle. Dís stayed behind with the children and Thráin, who was too busy counting his losses to realize what was going on.

Thrór's head rolled down the mountainside, and Thorin's mind stopped. The very thing he had been wishing, and here it had happened. But it wasn't like he meant it! Not like that. And there was nothing he could do but challenge the Orc responsible for his grandfather's death.

The battle was won in a way. They had not reclaimed Moria, but there were still living among their ranks. And to Thorin, that was enough. Until he saw the black braids matted with blood, and found his younger brother dead.

Fundin was also dead, and Balin and Dwalin brought Thorin home to Dís together, because they couldn't stand to be apart. The four of them tore their clothes and sat in mourning for a week before they realized that Thráin had disappeared.

That was the final straw for Thorin. His brother - his brother who should never have been called on to fight - was dead in battle. His cousin who had been as close to a father as he had had since the dragon came was dead. His grandfather was dead, and there was no reason to hate him anymore. His father was gone. All that was left were Dís, Balin, and Dwalin.

They clung to one another as they wandered south, and it was when they neared the White Mountains that Thorin thought of the idea. He had never wanted to roam like this. So many of their people had found new homes, and he had cursed Thrór and Thráin that they weren't among them. But Lofar, prince of the White Mountains, was a decent sort. He had come to Moria and fought with the line of Durin.

So he arranged a marriage between the prince and his sister, and she trusted him enough to go along with it. For a time they were happy, making a new place for themselves. But then Lofar was found dead, and the speed with which Thorin was named murderer told him it had only been a matter of time.

They spent some time wandering with a caravan of Dwarves. Thorin knew they were being chased, and between that and his still festering hatred of his father and grandfather he gave no more than their personal names.

Dís grew nearer her time as they traveled north through the Blue Mountains. It was peaceful there, and she could run no more. Thorin asked Dwalin to stay with her for protection, and he left the caravan.

He traveled for the next few years, doing his best to keep the attention of the White Mountains anywhere but where they were. But, though he knew he shouldn't, he kept returning to the Ered Luin. His sister was there, and his nephew, and his best friend. His heart was there, as much heart as he had left after all that time.

Fíli, his nephew, with hair of gold and eyes of laughter. The first golden thing he hadn't hated since Erebor was lost. The child could tug his hair, poke him in the eye, throw up on him, and Thorin would still worship him. Fíli, child of Dís and a father who could not be acknowledged for the sake of safety. But Dwalin was there to act as his father, and Thorin trusted his friend with all of their lives. Dwalin would love and care for Dís and Fíli as he would if he could be there with them himself.

Or perhaps not quite as he would. He discovered the love between his sister and friend when he found that she was pregnant again. They seemed almost to fear his reaction, and Dwalin held himself ready to be beaten for presuming. But Thorin wrapped his arms around them both. Their lives were so full of pain and danger, how could he deny two of the only people he loved a chance at happiness?

But they all knew that it was too dangerous a life for a child. Fíli was always at risk of being stolen, but this new child would not be stolen. It would be killed with them. And they could not let that happen.

They scarcely had Kíli an hour. Even as he walked to the meeting place, Thorin tried to come up with an alternative, any alternative.

Perhaps Lofar's father wouldn't target a child. But that was stupid, because if he could kill his own son he could kill anyone.

If Thorin kept him.... He would be in more danger than if he stayed with his parents.

There was no way they could keep him safe except to give him up. Another loss, another piece torn from his heart. He held the small body close, nearer to crying than he had been since Frerin's death.

And he gave him up, because there was no alternative. Because in Thorin's life there were rarely choices.

He worked for years, making Ered Luin a home for the people of Erebor. And as he stayed longer and longer amounts of time, more of them came. And the more of them that were there, the safer his family was.

He was there to help train Fíli with weapons. He was there to buy tools for Bofur to bring to Kíli. He was there to teach Fíli the cirth. He was there to buy Kíli's leather and fur, wearing them with pride that he could explain to no one.

He was there when an assassin tried to kill Fíli. And that was the final straw. There had been rumors of ravens at the mountain, rumors that the dragon was dead and the treasure there for the taking. But he had ignored them because he had to think of his people and their future. But if even Fíli had become a target, there was nothing he wouldn't risk.

Perhaps for once he could be Thráin's son and remember what had been lost instead of focussing on what he had and needed to get. Perhaps for once he could be the heir of Thrór and seek to take back what was his instead of moving somewhere new.

Perhaps Erebor could be theirs again. And when it was, he would make sure they were safe. All his people. All his family.

Because he would never let another piece of his heart be ripped away again.


	6. The Dragon Generation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dragon generation tends toward crime. Nori and others who were born soon before or soon after losing Erebor are... Differently moral. They were the load for newly poor wanderers and learned early how to be quiet and unseen and filch what they wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I was going to write the pneumonia story next, but this one wouldn't leave me alone.
> 
> For purposes of this fic, Smaug has had the mountain for 120 years. This is coincidentally the age I had already given Nori. This is what comes of putting those two pieces of information together.
> 
>  **Warning!** This chapter contains child abuse and neglect. Also, something that can be considered suicide.

When the dragon came, Dori was just past twenty. He was old enough and large enough to run errands and messages for Men in the nearby towns to earn pennies, but small enough that they didn't think of him as a threat but as a much younger child. He didn't understand until years later how lucky he was. Much older and he would have had more trouble getting jobs. Much younger and he wouldn't have been able to carry them out.

His father had died in the mountain, refusing to leave the home he'd been born in. His mother gave birth practically as they fled and didn't heal properly for months. They were lucky to be with a group of young parents, women who were heavily pregnant and could not run or ones with infants who weighed them down. Even as a child, Dori knew he would not have been able to provide for three.

The group dwindled quickly, as any with family elsewhere disappeared. In the end, there were five young couples and twelve children under the age of ten in their group. They had decided to pool resources, because there wasn't enough work for any family to support itself, and Dori's job quickly became that of babysitter. He didn't mind, though, holding the babies as their parents never did, sharing his food out with the older ones who were always hungry.

There wasn't work, and many of the women had hard labors out of the safety of the mountain with no healers among them. And on top of themselves, they had to take care of a dozen children too young to do anything to help. Dwarf children were too rare to be abandoned, but Dori didn't remember his father cuffing him near as often as all of the youngsters - his sisters and brothers in all but blood - earned almost on a daily basis.

He was the sole caretaker of his brother Nori. His mother refused for months to even look at him, as if he were somehow responsible for the coming of the dragon. As time passed, he heard the grumbling of the other adults and realized that they all said the same.

And if he heard it, the babies did as well. And they grew up understanding that they were somehow to blame for the fate of their people. They were the reason their parents were always hungry. They were the load that destroyed any hope of building new fortunes. If they weren't always in need of food, and clothes, and shelter, and oversight their parents would be better off.

Dori did what he could, but he was only a child himself. He hugged, soothed bruises, gave treats when he could. Dori never kept anything for himself, though he sometimes wished to. But he had a large family to take care of, and that family was the most important thing.

Nori was only five when Dori first took him into the town of Men they lived near. They needed flour for bread, and their mother equally refused to watch Nori and to interact with Men. Tiny Nori, too small even for a first downy beard, looked at everything with wide eyes, amazed at the size of everything and the prosperity of the tiny, poor hamlet. When Dori looked longingly at the jam tarts they couldn't afford, Nori saw it. When Dori passed his fingers lightly over thick, richly colored wool, Nori saw it.

When they left town with the flour - more than they had been sent for, because Nori's wide eyes and small body made the merchant easier to haggle with - Dori found a tart pressed into his hand. He stared at it, then turned to Nori with what he knew should have been fury. His small brother's pleasure at giving to him, and the trouble at home made him less inclined to yell. Instead, he divided the tart carefully in half and shared it.

While he watched, the younger ones grew more quiet. Fathers and mothers had started to turn to drink to dull the ache of loss they still felt, and it was better for small mouths to be closed. They learned to easily avoid notice of those larger than them. And after that first trip to the town, Nori and the others grew light fingered as well. They understood that their parents weren't going to raise them, didn't want them, begrudged them everything.

So they took it for themselves.

It took them years to get out of the shadow of Erebor. His mother wouldn't leave his father's final resting place. Nori was twenty and able to shower her with money earned legally and illegally by the time she would acknowledge him. His smile was sunny as she hugged her dear, baby son close. But Dori saw the savage look in his brother's eyes. It was the look of a predator, a look he learned that all of Eebor's children within ten years of Nori's age had.

The Dragon Generation. That's what they were called by angry parents and outsiders. And as they grew old enough to steal more, the meaning went deeper than a question of age. They stole for the challenge. They stole because the victim had too much. They stole because they wanted. They stole because they would never have another way to own. They stole because of the thrill, or the fun, or the profits.

They stole because they could.

Dori tried to baby his brother and the others. It wasn't enough to get them to stop, but it earned him their love. They called him "mother" sometimes, or "fusspot." They made up outrageous nicknames for him, and laughed at him. And that laughter was true, so he never stopped them. They laughed at his braids, and his insistence that they learn, and his love of things that were well made and beautiful.

They laughed, but they got them for him. They gave their parents the pennies that they earned, but they stole tea and cloth and tools for Dori. And after what they had lived through, he didn't have the ability to tell them to stop.

Nori finally ingratiated himself to their mother to convince her to move west. He had grown too well recognized and was afraid he would be caught soon. And it worked. Within weeks of his filial offering, the three had packed up and left. Dori hugged every one of the children, and they all let him as they would let no one else. They even hugged him back.

One of the girls had obtained a red, velvet ribbon that had been twisted into the form of a dragon. This was presented to Dori as a gift from the Dragon Generation, and as a sign he could use for them to find him. Dori wore it as a pin on his coat while they traveled, although his mother thought it a disgusting mockery of their pain.

Nori snarled after her when she left. What did she know about pain? And though Dori's thoughts turned to his father, they turned instantly to his brother and he said nothing.

They were five years on the road before they reached Ered Luin. To their mother's confused pleasure, they were helped on the way by many a young Dwarf. Neither of them told her the true level of the aid, because it was from the Dragon Generation to its own. Because the neglected youth knew that their parents would never help them, so they had to help one another.

In Ered Luin, Dori learned that fables of Dwarf loyalty in love were as false as stories of the value of children. They had scarcely arrived before their mother told them to find their own home. Her eye had been caught by one thirty years her junior, and she wanted to hide her past.

Dori was almost fifty and bleached his hair to look older so they could get an apartment. And when, not five years later, she was left pregnant and alone, they reluctantly let her in. She disappeared again after Ori was born, but by then they didn't care about her at all.

Ori was incredibly spoiled as a child. His brothers did everything for him, giving him everything they could. Dori worked any odd job he could manage, bringing in all the money he could and haggling over costs. With his hair white, others mistook Ori for his son rather than his brother, and he never disabused anyone of the notion.

Nori continued to make sure they had everything they could want. Dori had to bail him out of prison several times before he grew adept at escaping, and it wasn't long after that he learned how to not get caught. He brought home the softest yarn for Dori's needles, warm, thick cloth to turn into their clothes, sweets that Ori clamored for and Dori quietly thanked him for.

Ori also grew up with dozens of siblings who appeared and disappeared with no warning. They came for Dori, putting up with his mothering because they needed it even when they wouldn't say. They came whether they knew him or not, because he kept his dragon ribbon in the window for them to see. And when Nori started to be one of them and not someone who lived with them full time, Dori let him go and held him all the tighter when he was there.


	7. Pneumonia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is not the first time Bofur has seen Kíli near death.

They find the royal line of Durin, and Bofur's limbs turn to ice. The setting sun cannot mask skin turned grey, only mottle it luridly red. Fíli's body, shaking with sobs, makes it look like his uncle and brother are shivering, and Bofur cannot help but think of the other time he saw Kíli shivering but otherwise so still.

They had all been sick. It was winter - one of the worst in years - and their preparations hadn't been enough. Chinks they hadn't been aware of let wind into the cabin, and the only mercy was that snow stayed out. Because there was plenty of snow, and if it had started to come in they would have been buried.

They huddled together to stay warm, rationing the firewood through the blizzards that cut them off from the rest of the world. The door to the bedroom was closed, and the cabin became one room as they curled next to the hearth to save all the heat they could.

When Kíli got sick, it was understood that the rest of them get sick as well. And when they all came down with something that was between being a cold and the flu, they thought nothing of it. Bombur brewed tea, Bofur collected snow to melt for drinking and cooling fevered skin. Bifur mixed together medicines and made sure they all ate.

And Kíli curled into anyone who would hold him and shivered violently. It took them far too long to realize he was sicker than they were. He had been the first to take ill, but when the rest of them were on the mend he was still coughing and feverish. He made no complaint, but they could see how hard it was for him to eat. And for a growing boy all gangling limbs to have trouble eating the short rations they ate to make it through the winter made them worry.

And then Bifur saw blood in what he was coughing up.

Suddenly, everything was more serious. The three adults, although newly well themselves, went into a frenzy. Kíli was shivering so much his teeth chattered, but that meant his fever was so high it scorched to touch him. He didn't want to eat, and threw up most of what they could get down him in the first place. And he was in so much pain. He was glassy eyed from the pain and fever, and didn't seem to know what was going on most of the time.

They gave him every medicine they could mix together, and bathed him with cool water as often as he could stand it. It didn't help his fever, and as they watched he grew weaker.

Bofur and Bombur shared agonized looks every time he coughed - the only thing staying strong. It was obvious how much the coughing hurt, and his eyes dripped tears sluggishly.

"I'm dying, aren't I, Da?"

Bifur quieted him, holding the boy in his arms and drizzling water into his mouth. It was the only thing he didn't throw up, and they had stopped trying to give him anything other than tea and water. The boy silently put up with everything - every touch that made him flinch, every cool cloth that made him shiver, every bitter cup of tea. But they saw the understanding in his eyes.

"When I die, Da, I want you to have my clasp."

Bifur's eyes were never dry as he tended Kíli, and it had been days since he slept. He no longer tried to quiet such statements, because they all knew what was coming. Every time Kíli drifted into an uneasy sleep or glassy eyed unconsciousness, Bofur called his name, gripping his hands to see if he could still grip back. Every time he shuddered awake they thought it would be his last.

"We'll lose them both," Bombur whispered to his brother, looking fearfully at Bifur, murmuring softly over Kíli's sleeping body. They watched his chest rise and fall irregularly and with flutters of pain.

Bofur woke almost a week into the ordeal to find that Kíli's fever had broken in the night. Bifur smiled triumphantly and changed the boy into clothes that weren't drenched with sweat, holding him carefully in his arms.

It was days yet before he had an appetite. The cough lasted through the winter, and it wasn't until well into spring that he breathed easily. His body ached for weeks. But he was on the mend.

And now.... What was it all worth if it ends like this? Bofur crashes to his knees before Fíli, putting shaking fingers to Kíli's throat to look for a pulse. It's there, light and fast, and Bofur feels like the world can start moving again.

Healers are coming, and their lad is a survivor.


	8. Fortune

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Glóin has always been lucky.

Glóin was one of the fortunate ones when the dragon came. His entire family survived: father, mother, and older brother all in mourning but alive. They joined the group around the royal family, their own cousins, and that also seemed a bit of luck.

And Glóin was thirty five, which was old enough to begin training at his father's forge in earnest. He would not be left without a craft as so many younger Dwarves were. He trained with his cousins, Gróin teaching Dwalin, Thorin, and Frerin at the same time. They were all new at it, so Glóin and Frerin, despite being younger, didn't feel outdone.

They trained together with weapons as well, his uncle Fundin or older cousin Balin overseeing them. And in spending so much time together, Glóin learned more of his cousins than he had known as a child.

Dwalin was the strongest. He had trouble reining himself in for the forge, although he had a strangely gentle hand with horses when they had to do shoeing. He learned every weapon they owned, fighting with pleasure. As long as it was a good scrap, he didn't care who won.

Frerin was the most thoughtful. He learned the fastest in the forge, knowing before the rest of them when the color of the fire and the metal was right. He got little pleasure out of their work, though, watching their elders fashion things more elaborate. He hated fighting, but was good at it. They were all good at it.

Thorin was their leader. They followed him without question. He was fierce, direct, intense in everything he did. He got little pleasure in anything, but he executed every task put to him with such skill that people twice his age asked for his assistance.

Glóin knew himself to be a middling follower. He watched the others and did as they did to the best of his ability. But Dwalin often asked him to spar because they were the ones who enjoyed it.

And then Azanulbizar. Thrór called for them to fight, and Glóin and his family answered. He fought desperately, joy of battle torn asunder as he just tried to stay alive.

And again he was lucky. He was alive, his parents were alive, his brother had never been in danger in the first place. Healers were too valuable to waste on war, and it was Óin who patched them all up after.

But he was not untouched this time. Frerin, Frerin with the delicate touch and eye of an artist, was dead. Fundin, his uncle who had taken them all under his wing, was dead. And his cousins would let none close in their grief.

He mourned in public, mourned the death of the king and prince, mourned the death of so many Dwarves they were past counting. And in private, he let his tears fall for his friend and cousin, for his agemate who never made fun of him.

They continued following the remaining royal family, knowing that Thorin and Dís, Dwalin and Balin needed them more than ever. And when they stopped in the White Mountains, everything seemed like it would be okay. Glóin and his father opened a forge, and they rarely saw their cousins.

He couldn't believe that Thorin had anything to do with murder. Not his honorable cousin. So Glóin joined the exodus from the White Mountains as the Dwarves of Erebor split up and ran for their lives.

It was the first time in decades Glóin had been so far from his cousins, and the first time his brother wasn't with him. He went back to wandering with a smaller group. They stayed ahead of the agents of the White Mountains, who were after anyone from Erebor, and they made a living. Dwarf wrought weapons and ornaments were sought after, and Glóin's forge made him a decent living.

It was while traveling that he met the woman he would marry. She was from the Iron Hills, traveling with a group of emissaries to the Elves of Lothlórien. She was young for travel, still in her seventies and a full ten years younger than he was. His stories of travel enchanted her, and the daggers he forged her with the lines of Erebor and his travels won her heart. She left her family to join him.

They went to Ered Luin. Óin was already there, and their parents had grown too old to travel and had settled there as well. Hida fell into easy acquaintance with his family, and with his cousins when they discovered Dís and Dwalin living together with the son that had been announced before they had to flee the White Mountains.

It was several years before they had a child of their own. Messages were sent to her family in the Iron Hills, and gifts were sent back. Dís gave them the things she and Thorin had made and bought for Fíli. Óin insisted on being the one to care for Hida. They were all so happy, and once again they were a family together.

By the time Thorin called for an expedition to Erebor, Glóin had a second child. It had taken almost fifty years and several false starts before their daughter was born. And Glóin found that he wanted Erebor back. He wanted it for his children, and as a place to put the memory stones for his parents.

But while he and Hida discussed it, Gimli had looked at him with fierce joy in his eyes and asked if he could come. And then Glóin feared. Because Gimli was sixty three. The age he had been at Azanulbizar. The age Frerin had been at Azanulbizar.

But he couldn't say no to his son, so he brought him to Thorin. And then he found that in some ways Thorin was still the cousin he remembered and would follow without question. He responded to Gimli's request instantly, telling him he was too young. And Gimli did not question, and stayed home and safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three things to get from this one. 1. Not everyone had a terrible life, even though it was hard and there was heartbreak. 2. The reason Dori works odd jobs is because he didn't have Glóin's advantages. He was too young to have started a trade, his father was dead, and his mother was pretty useless. 3. Hida was young to be traveling when she met Glóin. She was in her seventies. He had been traveling for fifty years already. Smaug really effected the lives of the people of Erebor.


	9. Thorin Watches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin is not as subtle as he thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By popular demand!
> 
> This all happens before the Trolls.

Thorin watches Kíli. It is harder than he thought it would be, to have the boy close but ignorant. And he has to make sure he stays that way, for his own safety. He must remain ignorant until they have taken Erebor. But Thorin can look. It is a small enough thing, and who will notice?

Thorin watches Kíli. It is hardly a shock to Dwalin, as he watches the lad as well. The two warriors are able to have a full conversation, strategy sound and no pauses noticeable, while both pairs of eyes are turned on the three youngest of the company. They are writing in the dirt by the fire, and whatever has been written makes Ori blush red. Kíli throws his head back and laughs, the sound bright and free, and both Dwalin and Thorin stop talking, letting their eyes linger.

Thorin watches Kíli. Bilbo hardly knows them, and he still sees that. Kíli has borrowed Ori's slingshot, using it to catch a trio of rabbits and a pheasant. He tells Glóin that a slingshot is a good enough weapon, and Thorin looks pleased and proud. When he returns from fetching his kill, Kíli is also carrying wild garlic and ramps, dandelion greens and nasturtiums. He hands a flower to his father and then bites off a petal of another. Bilbo's eyes dart back to Thorin, who somehow looks personally betrayed at the young Dwarf's knowledge of edible flowers.

Thorin watches Kíli. And Dori finds it completely inappropriate. The youth is trying to convince his pony, Blackberry, to jump a fence. Blackberry quickly has enough and throws his rider, and the way Thorin's eyes trace the lines of Kíli's too slim body as the youth somersaults to his feet, laughing, make Dori want to find a way to pull Minty out from under him. He's more than twice Kíli's age! It's positively revolting.

Thorin watches Kíli. And the smile on his lips as the boy feeds his pony a cornflower as a peace offering reminds Glóin of how Thorin looked at his brother. Kíli is too free and too open, but something in the set of his shoulders makes Glóin wonder. Thorin is so happy to have Kíli there, but he never shows it. Never except by watching.

Thorin watches Kíli. But then, so does Ori. The journeyman scop watches as his new friend piles foraged food next to the fire for Bombur to cook with. It is good that part of the company knows how to find food, and Ori lets Kíli and Bifur convince him to try some kind of spicy flower. He looks up to see Thorin look hastily away, but thinks nothing of it. Thorin is the leader and has to keep track of everyone.

Thorin watches Kíli. Bifur knew it would happen. But it is hard, oh so hard, to see the one who will tear this boy from him. This boy he would call his son if he had any right to him. But he doesn't, and every glance from the blue eyes of their leader reminds him of this like a punch to the gut, or another axe in his head.

Thorin watches Kíli. It is a puzzle to Gandalf, who is used to creating puzzles and less used to figuring them out. The child is part of a group that isn't even from Erebor, and has no stake in the journey. He isn't sure what to make of them, but they are a pleasant enough group, capable and high spirited. But the way Thorin looks at Kíli is similar to the way he looks at Fíli. Curious, and worth considering further.

Thorin watches Kíli. He is poor at keeping secrets, although Nori thinks that of everyone. But then, Nori has seen the clasp that is no longer in the lad's hair. (It's in his pack. It must be - there's no way he would have left it behind.) Sure as anything, he's one of Durin's folk. And he must be Thorin's. Dís has one son, so what reason could they possibly have to separate a pair of brothers? No, count on it, Nori knows Kíli is Thorin's, and every longing glance proves him right.

Thorin watches Kíli. Bombur enjoys having the lad help him of an evening, but he has never been so minutely watched while going around his business, and he kind of wants to tell Thorin to stop. If he's fooling anyone, it can only be himself. But that would bring attention to them, and anger Thorin. Perhaps enough for him to forget his purpose in giving them the lad in the first place. So Bombur keeps quiet, and endures the eyes watching dinner preparations from across the fire.

Thorin watches Kíli. It makes Óin scoff. Better he had watched the boy in the years up to now instead. He's far too skinny in the healer's opinion. He and the ones who raised him. Because while Bombur is fat, it is the heaviness of feast and famine, not of regular meals. And if Thorin is going to be concerned now, he should have started by being concerned all those years and providing for them. Watching now will do no good, but no one asks Óin for his opinion.

Thorin watches Kíli. Watches him like one would watch a newly discovered vein of gold, and Balin never grows tired of seeing the look on his cousin's face. Life has been full of heartbreak, and the fact that Thorin has it in him to look at his secret nephew that way encourages Balin that in the end they will find a way to make this all work. And then he watches Kíli as well, smiling at the boy's pleasure in learning and the shy happiness he takes in his new friends.

Thorin watches Kíli. He has the expression Fíli has seen on his mother when she looks at him sometimes. She calls him her treasure and holds him close, and at those times Fíli remembers the brother who had been stillborn and never got to live with them. And the fact that Thorin looks at Kíli like that when he is doing nothing more than piping a song as they relax of an evening adds to the growing list in the young Dwarf's mind. Perhaps he has been mistaken all these years. His uncle's eyes tell him he might still hope.

Thorin watches Kíli. It drives Bofur mad. Thorin was the one who wanted the secret in the first place, and now he's the one jeopardizing it every time he smiles at their lad joyfully swinging in and out of trees to act as a scout. Thorin's expression is more open than Bofur has ever known it when he looks at Kíli, and it will bring nothing but the end of the secret and the destruction of the family he has given everything for.

Thorin watches Kíli. Kíli is the only one who doesn't see it.


	10. Numbers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Balin works on the census.

The presence of the dragon had kept the interior of the mountain hot and dry. It almost made Balin want to try and tame one to use as a furnace when he saw how well the records had been preserved. It was neat, and that almost made him laugh. It was as if the record keepers had cleaned before fleeing.

Unrolled and attached to the wall was the year list with the date 2821 clearly on top. Down the parchment, Balin saw the neat list of names, noting the ones that had been crossed out to record their death during the year, date neatly noted. At the bottom, in bright orangey gold ink to show how precious they were, were new births. Balin counted them, then counted the crossed out names and did his math. The population had been keeping fairly stable.

A glance at the number showed that when the dragon came there had been 8246 Dwarves under the mountain. The newest had been a boy born days before the dragon. Balin wondered what had become of him.

The old Dwarf found a presewn year list to replace the old one, but for this once there would be no copying and he just rolled up the old one and filed it in the cubbies on the wall. He wrote 2942 at the top of the new one, big enough to be seen from across the room. It was technically another months until 2942, but it made more sense to start with a new year.

He started with the family records, pulling out his own. The death of Fundin was marked down, and the birth of Kíli to Dwalin. The unofficial relationship with Dís was noted in. Then he turned to the year list and wrote down their names, numbering them 1 to 4. (Really, he should have left Dís off until she arrived from Ered Luin, but there was no way she would do anything other than come back to Erebor.)

Óin and Glóin, as his cousins, were also on the same family record. He noted the deaths of their parents, Glóin's marriage to Hida of the Iron Hills, and the births of Gimli and Leda. They as well would never stay away, and were named and numbered on the list.

The royal record had even more changes. Thrór's death and Frerin's. Thráin's disappearance and the death of his wife. Dís' marriage to a prince of the White Mountains and his subsequent death. The births of Fíli and Kíli. They were in the first year of the reign of Thorin, and it took only a little effort to turn the true gold ink back to liquid form and add that under the year.

Dori's father had died in dragonfall, and he had no idea if his mother was still alive. Nori and Ori weren't even on their record. He did them the most pragmatic favor possible with Ori. He knew the youth had a different father, but they didn't even know what he looked like. Ori was recorded as their full brother, something he doubted the three of them would ever discover.

The last of their company needed a record started, a strange thing to think about with a pair of brothers and a cousin. But Balin created it, and in a thought of compassion he recorded Bifur's dead wife and son to posthumously be counted among Erebor's own. He also recorded Kíli under Bifur's name, smiling at the idea that someone could be listed as the child of three Dwarves.

That made for a pitiful list of 17 names, four of them not even in Erebor yet.

When they moved into the mountain truly, there was a ceremony for all to swear allegiance to the new king. Once that was done, they were sent by families to the Hall of Records where Balin took down the scrolls of each family and recorded changes, then put their names on the list. It had 210 when they had finished, and he secured it to the wall, half ashamed at the amount of clean space on it.

Despite it being winter, the Dwarves of Erebor trickled in, bending knee to the king and passing their names and ties to Balin. He was amazed to add between 100 and 150 names to the list a month, including one joyful orange name. Despite being heavily pregnant, the young couple had insisted on coming back to a home they had never seen.

The boy's cries had blended with the scream of the wind, and Balin had written Sufot on his list - the child named for the storm that had heralded his birth.

They were 729 when the first signs of spring were seen, with three on the way in a sign of better things to come.


	11. Khuzdul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Kíli's Khuzdul is better than expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I tend to think of Khuzdul as something like pre State of Israel Hebrew. It wasn't the spoken language of the Jews, it was the language of prayer. It wasn't really a changing language at that point, so prayers were more or less the same no matter where you were. Similar to Latin in that it's a dead language that has no native speakers, and pains are taken to keep it the same.
> 
> So Kíli speaks Khuzdul better than anyone would think because of his youth, and is perhaps the first native speaker of the language in a long time.

Khuzdul was a sacred language. It had been created specifically for the Dwarves by their creator. A such, they endeavored to make it as untouched by time as possible. A Dwarf's first language was never Khuzdul. It was learned deliberately and carefully starting between the ages of twenty and thirty, depending on the family and intelligence of the Dwarf involved.

Khuzdul was the language of Dwarf rituals and prayers, a language that was spoken only when there were no outsiders present. Many never got proficient at it and some preferred not learning it at all. There were small villages that never used it outside the important rituals.

All of this explained why Balin and Óin felt safe sitting around the fire and talking about the three youngest members of the party in Khuzdul. They didn't use their names so they wouldn't draw their attention, and used more complicated vocabulary that they shouldn't know.

The conversation lasted until Kíli leapt to his feet. "We're not!" he cried.

Everyone stared at him for the outburst save his Da and uncles. Bombur snorted and continued the cooking, Bofur sat back and laughed, and Bifur pressed him back into his seat.

"Troskûldig man. Mabakh yomul skhôtna man aktûin."

Kíli twisted to glare up at him. "Of course we're unworldly, Da! When have we had a chance to be out in it? It doesn't make us foolish or reckless!"

"This whole trip is reckless," Bombur stated calmly, braising the venison in the pan on the fire. "You can't get angry at Mister Balin for stating the obvious."

"But we're sitting right here!" And now his voice was more than half whine, showing how young he truly was.

After a long moment, Balin spoke. "You understood what we were saying?"

This time it was Kíli who looked confused. "I know Khuzdul. Of course I understood."

"I didn't," Ori said. "How do you know so much?"

"I always have," Kíli answered, leaning back into Bifur in bewilderment.

"Bifur speaks nothing but," Bombur explained, digging up the potatoes that had been wrapped and buried near the coals of the fire to bake. "Kíli learned it along with his Westron as a child." He spared a glance for the scandalized expressions around the fire. "We made sure to teach it to him properly."

He gave Kíli the first potato, all but smothering it with venison and gravy. Fíli and Ori got the next dishes of dinner. "Mister Balin is correct that you're all too young to understand the dangers of this quest and foolish to undertake it."

Thorin, as their leader, was served next, and received a look that spoke more eloquently than words of what Bombur thought of him allowing the youths along.

"But Mister Balin should, perhaps, have a bit more care in what he says about others?" he finished, serving the two oldest in the party with every show of courtesy. They had the grace to look abashed, as they hadn't expected to be understood and were a bit embarrassed by it.

Bofur served himself while Bombur passed Dwalin and Glóin their shares. He was still giggling as he sat next to Nori. "And this'll teach us all to try and keep secrets from our babies by speaking Khuzdul. They'll just have Kíli translate for them and we'll have no peace," he said to the thief, voice loud enough for the rest of them to hear. "Best keep things we don't want heard unsaid, don't you think?"

A chastened Kíli apologized to Balin and Óin after dinner, but Bofur's words were taken to heart and there was no further gossip in Khuzdul.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Khuzdul translations:
> 
> "Troskûldig man." "You (plural) are naive."  
> "Mabakh yomul skhôtna man aktûin." "You (plural) know nothing of the world."
> 
> I actually have a page of notes on words I have put together for my version of Khuzdul, which has been gleaned from a number of sources. This way I can stay internally consistent! ...I'm such a language nerd.


	12. Mirkwood Dungeon #2 - Dwalin & Bofur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they come to a truce.

Dwalin read the note three times before he let himself believe it. And he couldn't be anything but gruff when he nodded his willingness to take the so-called medicine. It didn't fool Bofur, though, and the other Dwarf looked at him suspiciously while drinking his own.

"What was that all about?" the miner asked when they were alone. "You were grinning from ear to ear. For you, anyway. They wouldn't have noticed it, but I did."

And wasn't that insulting? Dwalin dropped into Khuzdul for privacy. He wasn't as good at it as Bofur - he had no need to be - but Balin made sure that he was adequate. "It's a letter from Kíli," he pointed out. "That means he's well. And Bifur is well, or Kíli would not have said it was safe."

"You don't have to pretend to be worried about Bifur," Bofur said in the same language, arms crossing. "Kíli isn't here to be impressed by it."

Dwalin blinked, wondering for a moment if he really was as proficient in Khuzdul as he thought he was. But wait.... The way Bifur had acted around him from the start, and Kíli's questions when they were in Rivendell. He had thought it was obvious by now, but apparently not. How could he give Bofur reassurance?

"Kíli is happiest," he said slowly, making sure his word choice was completely unambiguous, "when his Da is safe and well. I am glad when Kíli is happy."

Bofur started to scoff before the meaning of what Dwalin said sank in. "Say that again," he challenged.

"Kíli's Da is the most important person to him," Dwalin said instantly. "And that is why he was named first. I was probably an after thought to deal with our suspicious minds."

Bofur looked shocked a moment before clinging to the last statement. "Your name was on it. That's why you were so happy. Just waiting to be first and only, aren't you?"

Dwalin's hands clenched into fists. "How much clearer can I say I have no wish to take him from you?" he demanded in a roar.

The guard shouted at them to be quiet and they both guiltily reined in their tempers.

"I've seen how you watch him," Bofur hissed.

"Why wouldn't I?" Dwalin demanded. "He is the product of my union with Dís. He is magnificent."

"He's not just blood and bones."

"No. He's fine humor and good marksmanship. He's considerate and daring. He's reckless and wonderful. I will repeat my question, Bofur. Why would I not watch him?"

The anger slowly left the other Dwarf. "He always brings things for Bifur to see first," he offered. "Especially when he's learned something new."

Dwalin sat on one of the beds in the cell, looking up at Bofur and silently begging him to continue.

"There are some apple trees near the settlement. He was no more than ten when he climbed right up into one to find the biggest, reddest one for Bifur after one of his fits...."

When they next saw him, they held him together. And if he clung to both equally, neither minded.


	13. My Brother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fíli puts together clues.

It wasn't the best way to meet someone new. Fíli was able to admit that later. But he wanted to know the two other youths in the company, and to be honest, he wasn't used to being rejected so angrily. There were perks to being an heir of Durin.

But this youth didn't know he was an heir of Durin, apparently. He spun around all balled up tension and a flash in his eyes that looked familiar, although for the life of him, Fíli couldn't think of why. Not until later that evening, when Thorin spoke of the Dwarves who wouldn't come to their aid.

He looked back at Kíli, to see him sitting silent and serious, eyes alight with the excitement of adventure. That also seemed familiar, but as Fíli looked down the table there were so many others with similar expressions that he couldn't be sure it meant anything. Still, it was confusing and something he wanted to think about more. He wanted to know Kíli more.

And he did learn to know Kíli more. Kíli and Ori and the rest of the company. But it was Kíli he turned to the most. Kíli who never got so angry again but was good humored and quickly got past the awkwardness of their first introduction.

He had a mischievous sense of humor, Kíli did. He would glance at them slyly from the side of his eyes, grin blooming on his mouth as his prank became clear. And that was so much like his uncle Bofur that Fíli doubted that first impression.

But they found out, the night the three of them sat and talked in low voices about their families, that Kíli was a foundling. His Da and uncles had taken him in and raised him as their own, but thre was no blood shared between them.

Fíli and Ori knew how hard it was for Kíli to make that statement, no matter how unconcerned he ied to be. In exchange, Fíli told them that he had never known his father, who had died before he was born, but considered Dwalin his Da. And Ori admitted that his father was different than his brothers' though they shared a mother.

They fell asleep curled together like a pile of puppies, and when Fíli woke the next morning he saw Ori curled into a ball like Nori across the fire, and Kíli sprawled over the both of them the way Dwalin did most nights.

And that thought stopped his heart. Kíli was 77, five years younger than him. Kíli celebrated his birth late in the autumn, the time of year his mother stopped smiling. He laughed like Dís, got angry like Thorin, slept like Dwalin.

_Kíli was his brother._

He knew it like he knew the shape of his hands around the hilt of a sword. He had seen it the past weeks on the road in the other youth's free smile, in the set of his shoulders when he concentrated. His humor and his personality had been given to him by the ones who raised him, but the dark hair and fine features were all Durin.

He wanted to say something instantly, but knew he couldn't. He had no real proof, and everyone would laugh at him. The line of Durin leaving babies to be foundlings? It seemed more than ridiculous. So he kept his peace.

Until the last light of the sunset glinted off the familiar shape of a silver clasp in Kíli's dark hair. Fíli's hand flew to his hair, but his own clasp was buried deep in his pack. Hidden because Thorin had told him to, without offering any explanation.

But was it? What if he was wrong?

Fíli wrestled it out of Kíli's hair and examined it in the gloom of twilight. It was different - certainly not his own. But they still matched.

_And he had been told the twin of his own had gone with his brother._

He wasn't sure what he would have done if they hadn't been distracted by the Trolls. He was shaking so much and everything in him wanted to throw himself at Kíli and hold him so he couldn't disappear again.

The next morning, when they were stopped by the wizards, Fíli confronted Thorin, opening his hand on the pair of clasps. He demanded to know why, gesturing widely to Kíli and his family. They were good people, but they all knew Kíli had been raised penniless and halfway to starvation. Why? Why would they do that? Why had he been let to think that his brother had been stillborn? _Why?_

Thorin closed Fíli's hand again. He reminded his nephew that they had been on the run for years. He spoke of the assassin who had come after him within the past year. He pointed out that Kíli didn't share Fíli's father, and that would have been a death sentence for him as a child.

Finally, he forbade Fíli from saying anything about it.

The Orcs came before he could demand a promise, and by the time they made it to safety he forgot.

Fíli sat aside that night and watched. Kíli played a song with Bofur, dancing around the others with a free innocence Fíli couldn't remember ever possessing himself. For that, he knew he should keep his revelation to himself. For the laughter than came pure and warm, and the shy smiles given to the people he cared about the most.

But Fíli wasn't the only one watching. And the longing in Dwalin's eyes matched what he felt in his heart. And then, while he was wavering, Kíli looked at him.

And then there was only one thing he could do and remain true to himself.


	14. My Brother - Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brothers protect each other. At least they try.

The battle was a mess. It was next to impossible to tell friend from foe, and so many were taking blows from comrades and turning on everyone that even when certain he was surrounded by allies Fíli couldn't be anything but intensely watchful. He had lost Thorin at some point in the press of battle, but contented himself with the thought that Dwalin wouldn't lose him.

It was afternoon, after they had joined together against the common foe of Orcs, that Fíli saw Kíli near the edge of a push of Dwarves. He was too close to the Orc line and Fíli turned and fought his way closer. He couldn't lose his brother here. Not after everything they had been through.

He didn't even know if Kíli knew he was near when he turned to defend his little brother. He let the Dwarves of the White Mountains - the ones who might have been his subjects - close in to tighten the defenses.

He was so focused on destroying the enemy and protecting his brother that his senses narrowed in, just telling him what was happening just around him that pertained to him. The scream was startling, and he blinked up from a thankfully dispatched foe to see Kíli sag into his arms. Blood was leaking from the seam of his armor and Fíli stared in horror, arms tightening.

Kíli used Fíli’s hold on him to press himself back to his feet as their uncle came to their side, wavering but defiant still. It didn’t matter to Fíli. He had no attention for anything but the brother who was leaking life out in his arms.

There was no way he could miss Azog’s approach. Not with Kíli dropping his sword into the moil of mud and blood under their feet and making a leap that Fíli would not have believed if he hadn’t seen his brother hopping lightly into trees in better times.

He screamed after him for an idiot, even as he saw the knife appear in his hand from inside a sleeve. Fíli dove after him, stabbing at the Warg’s brain through its eye so that it couldn’t go after Kíli. Even as it stumbled and died, it swiped at his head and all he saw out of his left eye was red.

Blood erupted on Azog’s chest and he hit out at Kíli, sending him rolling. Fíli stumbled after him, scooping his brother into arms that trembled.

“You idiot,” he said, voice wavering. “What were you doing?”

Kíli smiled beatifically up at him, and for a second Fíli could think that everything would be okay. “You’re safe. Thorin is safe.” And then his face twisted in so much pain that Fíli knew it would never be okay.

“Kíli!” he shouted, wanting to shake him and knowing he couldn’t. “Kíli!” His brother’s eyes rolled back into his head and Fíli sobbed, the world around him blurring as tears poured down his cheeks.

Why was no one coming to help? He looked up and was relieved to see Thorin coming toward them. But as he reached them, Thorin’s legs dropped out from under him and then Fíli had two unconscious family members surrounding him and near death.

“Uncle,” he whimpered, reaching out to draw the older man close. The battle was still going on around them, so he couldn’t leave them to get help. But he couldn’t carry both at once, and there was no way he could choose between them.

Fíli sobbed, holding them closer. There was no way to save his family, and he was so scared that help wouldn’t come in time. All he could do was hold them and pray, crying down onto the ones he loved best.


	15. The Explanation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kíli promised he would tell Legolas why he was introduced as part of the royal family.

Legolas sat cross legged on the floor of the training room, examining the bows and arrows that Kíli's corps of archers trained with. Kíli had heaved himself onto one of the targets and sat with his legs dangling as they discussed the merits of Dwarf style bows over Elf style bows and different feathers for fletching.

Kíli was nothing but smiles. They had changed out of their finery and into simple practice clothes. They were meeting in peace, as free men, and as friends. As far as the young Dwarf was concerned, nothing could be wrong. When Legolas looked up at him, he could do nothing but smile in return.

"Now," he said as he laid aside the bow he had been examining, "you said you would explain."

Kíli reddened, remembering the outburst in the throne room. "It's a long story," he hedged.

"It would have to be," Legolas responded, giving him a look that clearly said he wasn't getting out of it. "I've met your father, after all."

Kíli bit his lip before answering. "You have," he finally said, voice hesitant. "And you've met my Da."

Legolas was quiet a long moment while he considered the statement. "Can male Dwarves--"

"NO!" Kíli shouted, cutting him off, eyes wide at the barest hint of that question.

"Then how can you have two fathers? I know Dwarf women have beards as well, but your..." He hesitated on the word father and finally said "Da is male. I'm certain of it."

The Elf didn't look too certain, so Kíli nodded confirmation. "I told you it was complicated." He slipped off his perch and joined his friend on the floor, sitting with his hands open, palms up, on his knees. He didn't know if it meant the same to Elves, but it was a sign of honest dealing that he fell into automatically.

"You know what the king of the White Mountains accused Thorin of?"

Legolas nodded.

"It isn't true," Kíli said firmly. "But he made it look true. He wanted to kill Thorin over politics." He saw Legolas' lips twitch at the simplification. "It's true!" he insisted. "And the reasons don't matter to you, so why should I try to understand them?"

Legolas gestured him to go on.

"So they were on the run with Fíli, and when I came along they couldn't keep me."

"Why not?"

"I was a sign of Ma's infidelity." And by tradition he was, not that it had ever mattered to his family.

"You're acknowledged now," Legolas pointed out.

"I told you it was complicated," Kíli repeated in a whine. "Dwarves legendarily only love once, so they only marry once and remain faithful to a fallen partner for life. I don't share Fíli's father, so I'm legally the product of an affair, even though Ma's husband died before she and my father started their relationship."

Legally he was also a bastard, as Dís and Dwalin had never married. How could he be second in line for the throne? But he supposed he had earned his place in battle and by slaying Smaug. And if Thorin named him kin, who was going to oppose him?

"But why has that changed now?" Legolas insisted.

"The king of the White Mountains is dead. And we have Erebor." The safety did make all the difference, although Kíli wondered if he would have been able to keep the secret if they had failed. It probably wouldn't have mattered. Had they failed, they most likely would all be dead.

"So you were handed off for safety," Legolas mused. "Yours or theirs?"

Kíli shrugged. "Probably both. They wouldn't have been able to watch me and take care of themselves as well." It wasn't a thought that hurt. He had always hated knowing that his Da and uncles went hungry so he could eat. He wouldn't have wanted his other family to come to harm while trying to protect him.

"And you knew?"

He shook his head. "Not until after the quest started."

"Did you know when..?"

He nodded sheepishly. "We were in Rivendell when it came out. Fíli didn't know either, but he had figured it out on the road. Thorin was angry with him for telling."

"So now? You've been claimed by your rightful family, and you know the truth, but you still call that one your Da."

"I have more than one family," Kíli said, head up in pride. "My Da and uncles who raised me, and-- And my Ma and father, brother and uncles who share my blood. I have them _all_ , Legolas."

The Elf understood the intensity of Kíli's words and his expression softened. He leaned over to clasp Kíli's hands in his own, the correct way to indicate he was done with questions and satisfied with the answers. Pale hands held his own tightly, and Legolas smiled into his eyes. "I'm glad."


	16. On the Shore of the River Running

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ori celebrates freedom by having a tearful reunion with his notebooks.

Ori didn't mind staying with Bifur and Bofur while the others went for supplies in Laketown. He hadn't had access to his notebooks and pens in months, and after hugging them tightly, he needed to flip to a new page to quickly write down the rhymes and cadences he had thought of while in the dungeon cell with Balin.

And then he turned to the task of writing down the things that had happened in Mirkwood: the spiders (and he shuddered in memory of waking in a cocoon), capture by the Elves, Kíli standing up to the king of the Elves on behalf of his Da, the months in the cells, and their escape in the barrels. He carefully left out notes on how much they had all thrown up when they finally reached dry land.

He asked Bifur and Bofur about the escape. It had been a surprise when the prince of the Elves had unlocked their cell, and if Bilbo hadn't been there to speak for him neither Ori nor Balin would have followed him. Even with a braid of trust in his hair, there was too much bad feeling and too much to lose.

Bifur explained the strange friendship that had sprung up between the two. He told Ori all that Kíli passed to him about what they did together, and about the final conversation where Bilbo had been revealed. He also told the scop, a small, secret grin on his face, how they had made the guards believe he only knew Khuzdul so he could gather information for Bilbo. Ori smiled back, noting it down.

Breathing in the air of freedom and listening to Bofur's cheerful whistle, Ori read over the notes he had just written to make sure he understood. He would have to ask Kíli about it later, but he had no doubt that his younger friend was instrumental in their escape.

He had befriended the Elf prince. Ori snorted a laugh. That was no surprise; everyone loved Kíli. Ori was willing to bet that even Goblins and Orcs would love Kíli. That was it, of course - they had been in too much of a hurry in the Misty Mountains. If they had just given Kíli a chance to sit down and chat with the Great Goblin, everything would have been fine. The Goblins would have returned their packs and shown them out, perhaps even given them food and an escort to Mirkwood.

Ori was aware that the ordeal with the barrels and their new freedom might have made him a bit giddy. He set his notebooks aside, finished with updating until he had a chance to talk to everyone else, and looked to see if the others needed help. He spent the next hour sitting between Bifur and Bofur, cleaning weapons and mending tears in packs and clothes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There might be other bits of Ori and his work writing the epic in the future. The bad part is that that means I have to write bits of poetry. This is not necessarily a deterrent.


	17. Birthday Terror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The time the the Carrock wasn't the first time Bifur hurt Kíli during one of his fits.

Kíli was only a day from being ten when everything went wrong. Bombur had the flu, which meant he hadn't been working for over a week and money had started to grow tight. Bombur had promised him apple pie for his birthday, but Kíli knew better than to expect it now. He followed his Da quietly, helping to carry medicine and tea in to his uncle, whose fever wavered up and down as he pushed himself out of bed to help take care of him.

And then Da started trembling into one of his fits. Normally Kíli would go running to the public house to get Bombur, but Bombur would be no help. And Bofur was at work in the mines and Kíli couldn't get to him. But Da was shaking, jaw clenched and growling. He needed help.

Kíli led him to a chair and climbed up into his lap, hugging him tight and trying to shush him. He didn't want to wake Bombur, and he knew his uncle would get hurt trying to hold Da back.

When Bofur got back from the mines two hours later, Bombur was flushed feverish and unconscious on the floor and Bifur turned burning, haunted eyes on him. Bofur spent no time in thought before he threw himself across the room at his cousin, holding him tightly in an embrace he couldn't break out of and that finally exhausted him.

Once he had put both brother and cousin to bed, he turned to the task of finding Kíli, wondering where the small boy had gone. He called his name, and looked around the room, breathing a sigh of relief when the dark head peaked up from behind a thrown chair.

But there were tears on the boy's cheeks, and a bright red mark was already turning into a dark bruise. Bofur's eyes widened and he scooped the boy into his arms, only holding tighter when the sobs started.

It took time to get the story out of him; how their brave boy had tried to hold his Da down like he'd seen his uncles do. They had always hidden their hurts from him, and it had never crossed his mind that his beloved Da would hit him away. When Bombur, weakened by his illness, had fallen, Kíli had hidden away from gentle Bifur's angry raving.

Bofur held the boy in his lap, telling him stories and trying to reassure him. With Bombur sick in one bed and Bifur passed out in the other, they stayed in a chair in the other room all night, sleeping as well as they could.

That was where Bifur found them in the morning, and it was his first clue as to what had happened. They might just have fallen asleep there, but it was very rare that Kíli didn't crawl in next to him. The next clue was the dark bruise down the right side of the boy's face. Bifur couldn't help gasping his name, and when the boy blinked himself awake and then shrank back in fear, that clinched it.

_Fear_ from his curious, affectionate boy. He was a monster. He spread his hands wide to show he had no ill intent, and backed away, eventually collapsing back into bed. _How could he?_ Even through everything, how could he have not known his Kíli? He had thought he was out of tears, but he was wrong.

Bombur was out of bed. He didn't feel well enough to do much more than putter over the hearth and sit, but someone needed to be up so Bofur could go to work. Bifur was still hiding in the bedroom, and Kíli hadn't asked after him yet. He was playing on the floor in front of the hearth, and he kept glancing at the closed door between the rooms.

He climbed into Bombur's lap just after lunch. Bifur hadn't come out for it, and Kíli demanded to know why he wasn't better. Bombur brushed careful fingers across the dark bruise on the boy's face, because while Kíli might have forgotten about it, he hadn't. There was a moment where the boy's eyes filled with tears and he curled up small. But then he got to his feet and ran from the house, and Bombur wasn't strong enough to follow.

Kíli was truly sorry. He had woken from a nightmare of what had happened to see his Da standing over him. He had been terrified for a moment, before he was fully awake, but by the time is had passed he Da was gone. He hadn't thought about it again until Bombur pointed out that he had upset Da. And that was wrong! Kíli didn't want Da to hurt.

But he knew what would make things better. They had planned to pick apples for his birthday pie. And even if they couldn't have pie, and even if they couldn't come together because he had hurt Da, Kíli could still go for apples. Maybe if he got a very good one, Da would forgive him.

Climbing into the low branches of the apple tree was easy; the tree was old and bent over from years of apples pulling it down. Kíli scrambled up into it, searching for the perfect apple. He reached for a nice one, and saw a better one on the next branch up. He climbed up a branch and reached again, but again there was a better one a little higher.

By the time he found the very best - round and smooth and perfectly red - he was higher in the tree than he had expected to be. And how was he to get down safely without bruising the apple and ruining it? He leaned against the trunk to consider it, and heard a voice calling his name.

It was Bifur, and his face brightened as he shouted back.

"Catch me!" he called when his Da got to the tree he was in. With complete faith, he stepped off the branch and into the air.

Bifur caught him and held him tight. And apparently Kíli didn't think he was a monster, because the boy held him just as tightly in return and pressed their heads together, careful, as he always was, of the axe head. Bifur's arms trembled as he cradled his boy close to his heart.

Kíli proffered the apple with both hands, looking at Bifur hopefully, eyes wide on his bruised face. "It's for you," he said. "Are you better, Da?"

Bifur gently kissed the dark cheek, rejoicing when Kíli didn't pull away. He nodded silently, not trusting his voice. And he carried his boy home and sat with him, cutting the apple into slices and sharing them with Kíli. It wasn't the birthday he deserved, but he seemed happy nonetheless.


	18. Mirkwood Dungeon #3 - Thorin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With guest appearance by Bilbo.

Thorin was alone, a thing that the guards had pointed out with vicious satisfaction. He didn't tell them that he would gladly suffer crueler fates so that his people would have the comfort of friends. He endured as best he could, knowing that missteps on his part would be reflected in how the others were treated.

He was taken daily to Thranduil. In the Elf king's eyes, he saw something similar to the dragon sickness that had taken his grandfather. It worried him, that Elves might be susceptible. They held themselves so high and aloof that worldly greed was dangerously concerning.

Here, at least, he had a story to stick to. He followed Kíli's lead, and said only that they were traveling to family in the Iron Hills. Dáin was unable to help him retake Erebor, but his very name was shield to them now.

And then Bilbo had found him. Bilbo, free and working on how to escape. Thorin's spirits soared, and the two spent hours conversing in whispers, hands held tightly between the bars for physical comfort they had no other way.

So the night that Thorin heard sobbing from outside his cell, he pressed himself to the bars in anxious concern, staring hard as if that would let him see through the magic of Bilbo's ring.

"I can't do it, Thorin," the Hobbit said, voice broken. "I'm no burglar or strategist. The biggest thing I've planned was a birthday party. I can't get you out of here."

Thorin reached out a hand, comforted that Bilbo didn't hesitate to take it. He tugged the invisible Hobbit close against the bars and hugged him as close as he could.

"Where's the Hobbit that leapt to my defense against Azog?" he murmured. "And slipped away from Goblins unseen and saved us all from spiders?"

Bilbo gave a choked laugh, clinging tightly. "That was luck. Luck and madness. There was no planning involved, and you couldn't call me brave. This is too big, Thorin. I don't know what the things I hear mean, and everyone gives me information that should help but I can't put it together in my mind."

"Then bring it to me," Thorin said, hand groping for Bilbo's ring. The Hobbit seemed to understand, because he pulled it off and tucked it safely away. "You don't need the whole burden resting on you. There are two parts to plan: getting out of the cells, and getting out of the fortress."

"The first part is easy enough," Bilbo said, leaning against the bars. "Nori is out of his cell whenever he wants. I'm sure he could get the rest of you out too. But that doesn't help. There is no way out of the fortress."

Thorin sifted his fingers through Bilbo's hair as he would do for Fíli, Dís, or one of the ponies. It had the same soothing effect on Bilbo, and his shuddering breath started to smooth out. "There must be a way. Don't worry. We will find it. You can bring me anything, and I will help you plan."

Bilbo nodded. "I'm sorry I'm so useless."

The bars were too close to touch heads together, so Thorin settled for rubbing noses - again, something he would do with his sister or nephew. "You have saved my life twice already. That is hardly useless. You're just over tired. Rest."

Bilbo smiled tiredly as he returned the nuzzle. "Yes, your majesty," he answered with wry amusement that assured Thorin that this was a momentary stress break and not a long building one. "You rest too, if you plan on interpreting everything the others tell me."

"As you say," Thorin acknowledged, lowering himself to sleep on the floor, one arm still passed through the bars to grip Bilbo's hand in his own.

He was the first one Thranduil's son released, and as he was led to the storage room where the barrels waited, he felt an invisible hand slide into his own. Before leaving to get the others, Bilbo tugged him down to knock their foreheads together lightly. Despite the hardship of the cell and the danger to come, Thorin found himself grinning as he sorted his boots out of the pile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This may not be quite as coherent as I want it to be, but I blame writing it literally an hour before bedtime. I reserve the right to go back and edit it later if I so choose.


	19. The Moral of Trolls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ori tells a story, and in the end can't resist a lesson.

"Vorin! Onur!" Ori had somehow been left with babysitting duty when his friends had official business to do. He helped Dori raise the children of the dragon generation, and people thought that meant he liked children.

Well... He _did_ like children, but that didn't mean he was good at dealing with them. Not like Dori was.

"Where are you?"

"Tell us a story, uncle Ori." 

The voice was Onur, and definitely overhead. Ori glanced discreetly up, angling his walking in one direction. "You don't like my stories."

"You don't tell them like uncle Bofur."

Vorin this time, and they were in the same place. "Stories are my job," he answered, only slightly put out. His stories were beautiful in form and would live for ages, but Bofur was a wonderful storyteller for the children.

"Can't you tell them really?" Vorin whined. "Without them always being so long and winding?"

Very close now, and Ori tipped his head back to see the little princes looking down at him from a crack high in the wall. "That's how I learned all of them. I only know them as poetry."

Onur shook his head. "Not the Quest for Erebor," he insisted. "You don't have to tell that one like the others."

Ori considered, though he didn't really need to, watching the boys hold their breaths and lean out of their hiding place until they almost fell. "You have to come down here. I won't tell stories with my neck craned back like this."

The reaction was instantaneous, as Onur threw himself down out of the crack with the reckless abandon of his father. It was only luck that Ori caught him as easily as he did. Vorin climbed halfway down before dropping the rest of the way. They looked at him with identical smiles, hugging him tightly around the neck and waist.

Ori smiled back down at them, taking a moment to consider the cousins closer than brothers. Vorin was golden fair, with his mother's stubborness and Fíli's humor. Onur, on the other hand, was darker than either of his parents, coal dark of hair and eye, and with Kíli's mischievousness and charm and his mother's temper. They had been born within months of one another, and it was rare to find them apart.

Ori sat on the floor, and Vorin joined Onur on his lap. "Well," he started, trying to find his way around the poetry that was inherent in his usual recitations. "We had stopped for the night, and your fathers were set to watching the ponies."

Vorin was not pleased with this. "Anyone can watch ponies," he said in a whine. "That's not hard. Why couldn't father do something more important?"

Ori poked him in the nose. "All jobs are important. Why, if we lost the ponies, what would we do? We couldn't carry as many supplies and we'd be so much slower. We might never get here." He almost giggled as the boy gave a gasp as though his question would retroactively ruin the quest. "Besides, they managed to lose two of them without noticing, so it can't be that easy."

"My Da would never!" Onur insisted, arms crossed.

"With your uncle Fíli there to distract him?" Ori asked, and was pleased at how quickly the boy subsided. "They were still looking for them when Mister Baggins came to find them, and that's when they saw a Troll carrying two more away. While Mister Baggins tried to free the ponies, Fíli went for back up."

"My father is not a coward!" Vorin said, reaching out to tug on Ori's beard.

"I never said he was," Ori answered severely. "Trolls are big as this room, more dangerous than a cave in, and they eat little Dwarves like you for lunch." He enjoyed their wide eyed look of fear, and wondered if this was how Bofur felt all the time. "There were three of them, and Fíli showed good sense to go for help. Meanwhile, Mister Baggins tried to steal a knife from one of the Trolls, because he forgot to tell your fathers that he didn't have one of his own, and the Troll used him as a hanky."

"Yuck!" both boys exclaimed in unison, identical expressions of pleased disgust on their faces.

"Kíli ran to his defense with nothing but a pair of knives, showing more bravery than brains--"

"Hey!"

Ori looked at the angry boy with asperity. "That is exactly what Bifur told him."

"Oh." Onur settled down again. If his granda had said it then it wasn't an insult, and only the honest truth.

"But he distracted the Trolls long enough for the rest of us to arrive." It was hard not to wax lyrical as he described the fight. He closed his eyes to see it again, playing across the inside of his eyelids. There were the Trolls, lumbering through the clearing. There were the Dwarves, running and fighting. He told the boys about the whole group of them, more detailed than the official tale.

The boys were engrossed in the fight, practically vibrating with pent up energy. Before he was more than a quarter of the way through it, they were on their feet. They had finely made wooden swords that clacked together as they went through Dwalin's practice routines. But by the end, they had lost interest in that and turned to leap on Ori.

"You little goblins!" he exclaimed with a laugh, pausing in his story to pin both boys to the ground. They curled up against his sides, and he continued with an arm around each, lying back and looking up at the ceiling. "We didn't win. Two of the Trolls grabbed Mister Baggins." He put on his best Troll voice. "'Throw down your arms or we'll rip off his.'"

The boys gasped in fear, and that was rewarding.

"They tied half of us up in sacks, and put the other half on a spit over the fire to cook."

"Uncle Ori! Uncle Ori, was Da...?"

Ori turned his head to meet worried black eyes. "He was in a sack, entlin," he said, voice warm.

As Onur sagged with relief, Vorin tugged at Ori's other arm. "Uncle Ori, how did you get away?" His eyes were bright with the concern that somehow Ori would say they hadn't and everything would melt around them.

Ori pulled them closer, lowering his voice to make it sound like he was telling a secret. They responded to the tone, nestling against him quietly, eyes round as saucers.

"Mister Baggins heard them mention morning coming and remembered that Trolls turn to stone in the sun. He got to his feet and distracted them until Gandalf could get there and let in the sunlight."

Their eyes shone and they didn't ask for more on what Bilbo had said, which was a relief. Ori didn't relish the idea of explaining parasites to small boys.

"Mister Baggins was so smart!" Vorin exclaimed, and Onur nodded agreement.

"He was," Ori agreed, and then proved he spent too much time with Dori by adding "and that is why you must pay as much attention to your studies as to your weapons practice. Thinking can solve many more problems than fighting."  
"Will you tell another one, uncle Ori?" Vorin asked, curling in and looking at him adoringly.

And far be it from Ori to disappoint the beloved baby princes of Erebor. Curving his arms more comfortably around the pair of them, he started to tell them about the Goblins in the Misty Mountains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Khuzdul:
> 
> Entlin - literally "duckling," a term of endearment like "sweety."
> 
> Also, something like a one word edit to try and make it clear a little earlier who these small boys are.


	20. Hobbits of Erebor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo wasn't joking about farming the side of the mountain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I have not disappeared. This needed some time to filter out of my head and onto paper. (Is that even something I can say when I'm typing? What's the correct phrase? "And onto screen"?) Also, I'm working development on a new writing project, and it's one that's taking a lot of thought and time.
> 
> Also, this apparently got saved as a draft without being posted. Oops?

As promised (or was it threatened?) Bilbo brought a dozen of his Took and Brandybuck cousins to Erebor with him the second year of renewal. Both families were wide ranging and wealthy (you really have to be in order to indulge in adventuring) and unused to heavy farming, but the lads were able to expand on what Bilbo had started the previous year. Dwarf families hosted them to live inside the mountain, and they were excellent guests. When autumn came and Bilbo headed back to the Shire to rest and restock, half of them decided to stay.

With Thorin's okay, Bilbo planned to try and get others to come with promises of land ownership. Those with less money but more expertise might be lured with that offer. There was a hope that he could get another dozen youths to come seeking their fortune, and as the weather turned cold the Dwarves set about making them homes. They knew from experience that those with little didn't like to be beholden to others and wouldn't want to be fostered in the mountain.

It was easy for Dwarves to build homes in the winter. They tunneled down into one of the spreading roots of the mountain, making a path from their homes in the center to the sheltered valley they were offering to the Hobbits. With the help of memories of Bag End and the Tooks who had remained, they designed two dozen homes that were dug low into the mountain. Kitchen and dining room, sitting room and study, three or four bedrooms, several closets and pantries. The cut round windows looking out on the valley, and round doors as well, so the Hobbits could go out or walk back into the tunnels and come up into Erebor.

Before the snow came, they drilled down and put a well near the homes for irrigation and outdoor use. When that was done, they drilled down inside and ran pipes up for sinks and bathrooms. They built hearths and counters and stoves. They were so hopeful of success, Bilbo and his cousins having shown just how strong the support of Hobbits could be, that they carved the tunnel down from the mountain with designs that represented both Dwarves and Hobbits; symbols of welcome and protection, flora and fauna.

It was amazing, come the middle of spring, to see a caravan of wagons approach the mountain, and find that the burglar had convinced a dozen _families_ to throw their lot in with Erebor. The eldest was a white haired gammer, the youngest a babe in arms. All of the Dwarves in the mountain, almost four thousand of them, watched from the mountain as the Hobbits explored the valley and their new homes. They saw pleasure and excitement, even if they couldn't hear the words spoken between them.

After three weeks, Bombur thought they had been given enough time to settle in and went to speak with the unofficial leader. It was midmorning, after the rush of breakfast in the large kitchen that served the royal family and the guards and he could trust his assistants to continue with the preparations for lunch. He walked down through the tunnels and knocked on the appropriate door.

A middle aged Hobbit man opened the door and ushered him in. "We're just sitting down to second breakfast. Please join us, Master Dwarf."

Feeling a touch awkward to have interrupted, Bombur joined the family, smiling at the young ones who stared at him and nodding thanks to the young woman who served him. And then he was amazed. Bombur considered himself a good cook, but he knew when he had been outclassed and that time had come. And with little more than was already growing in the valley!

They had oat rolls with fresh butter, the flour obviously purchased somewhere as Bilbo hadn't planted any grains. Then omelettes with mushrooms and greens, a salad that included fragrant and spicy blossoms, and an herbal tea.

When his plate had been cleaned, Bombur looked up to see the pleased looks around him.

"How can we help you, Master Dwarf?" the Hobbit patriarch asked, sounding more inclined to be amiable.

"Please, call me Bombur. I work for my living. I have charge of the big, public kitchens and do much of the provisioning. Our trade partners in Dale are worried you might cut into their business, so I thought it was best to come and talk to you myself."

"Well met, Bombur. I'm Tomson Miller, and I've somehow been elected spokesman for those of us that came here. I'm glad our humble fare met with your approval, and you with charge of large cooking operations."

"Don't be modest," Bombur admonished. "If this is what Hobbits eat, I want some in my kitchens. I've worked as a cook for almost a hundred years, and this was simply amazing."

The man's face eased more. "Hear that, Anise?" he said to the young woman who had served. "You've an admirer already. I told you this would be a good move." As she blushed and continued clearing the table, he turned back to Bombur. "Why don't you tell me something about what Dale grows and we'll see what's best for us."

It wasn't that difficult in the end. The Men of Dale grew mostly grains for sale. Dwarves traditionally ate few vegetables, so the ones that Men ate were grown in small, family plots. They also raised meat and dairy cattle. Their trade agreements with Erebor were as much about use of market space and the transporting of goods as they were about food.

Hobbits, on the other hand, had food as their main business. Where Men had a few things they used to eat, Hobbits apparently ate almost everything that came out of the ground. Bilbo had planted fruit tree saplings and berry bushes, and they were ready to produce. They planned to grow a huge variety of vegetables and flowers. Most of the families had brought chickens with them, one had a flock of sheep for meat and fleece, and three had brought dairy goats. There would be milk, butter, and cheese coming up from the valley.

And one man had carefully moved his apiary across the mountains. After looking at the valley, he was confident he could multiply it and have five hives in the next five years. All the honey they could want! Erebor would never be short on mead.

They made no written contracts, but neither men could write. Nor did they place the importance on contracts that the rich did. Bombur stayed until they started preparing elevenses, knowing that the lunch rush would be starting soon and his people would need him. He promised to come for luncheon at the end of the working week with his family and a contribution.

Bilbo's idea had certainly been a good one. Bombur walked back into the mountain sure of improving the fare of the Dwarves and making new friends.


	21. Princess of the Realm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fíli's marriage may be a political one, but Kíli doesn't think that means his bride should be in fear for her future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this... kind of meanders through the introduction of Fíli's wife. Hopeful not enough to be hard to follow.... Ask any questions and I can likely answer them.

They were about to enter Mirkwood, and Kíli had only seen his new sister-in-law (well, they would be married as soon as they made it back to Erebor, so it counted, right?) twice. Of course, when he and Dwalin got the the White Mountains, she was presented to them. Kirta, daughter of Lalt, promised to Fíli as a way of changing the relations between Erebor and the White Mountains. She would secure the peace: the death of prince Lofar would be dropped by both sides, and Fíli would give up any claim to the throne of the White Mountains.

She hadn't spoken at the audience, and had kept her eyes down. Kíli had seen long, ash blonde hair in intricate braided coils, her fine beard delicately plaited. She had fine, round features and a fine, round figure as well, swathed in pale silks with wide, belled sleeves, embroidered all over in complex figures. When her father led her away so that diplomatic conversations could be had, Kíli saw that her train dragged on the floor behind her. Even after two years, such pageantry was foreign to Erebor.

Her father and a dozen guards had joined the dozen who had come from Erebor. Their ponies were less well behaved than the ones Kíli had brought, and there was a coach for Kirta. Her personal goods were loaded in and on it, and she rode with the curtains closed. She had not been presented at their stops in Rohan or Lothlórien, even though her father had joined them.

One day, on the road between the two, Kíli had directed Blackberry over to the carriage and knocked on the window. She pulled the curtain aside, and he had time to see curious, dark blue eyes, before her father called him away and took his place. He didn't quite understand the glare directed at him, or the anger directed at the now closed curtain, but Kíli knew this was something he needed to investigate further.

The first night in Mirkwood, they were met by Wood Elves and brought to a safe hall for the night. Kíli waited until it was quiet, and slipped into Kirta's room unseen. It wasn't until he looked up to see fear in her eyes as she pulled her dark red robe tightly closed, that he realized how indecent he was being.

Eyes wide, because he could hear his Da's disappointed "Kíli, don't you ever think?" he couldn't decide on what to say.  
"My lord," she said after a moment, voice tense. "How may I serve you?"

At that, all his usual outgoing friendliness took over. He hated to hear that tone directed at him. His hands fluttered in reassuring iglishmêk as he spoke. "No, sister, forgive me. We haven't had a chance to talk yet, and I am impatient to know you!"

"If any should find us...."

"Erebor is eager for this alliance," Kíli assured. "Even if we _were_ doing something inappropriate - which we aren't! Oh, I've made a mess to start with, haven't I?" He took a step back, holding his hands behind his back in a way that was hopefully nonthreatening. "I have someone back home." And he couldn't keep the smile from his lips at the thought of her. "I have no intent to harm you or threaten your virtue."

She sank onto the bed, looking cautiously hopeful. "You are the bastard prince," she said softly, voice almost a question.  
He grinned, throwing himself to the floor at her feet. "That's me! I hope it wasn't too much of an insult. But Fíli has so many things to learn now that we have Erebor back. It was only good sense to send me."

"Can you tell me of the man I'm promised to?" she asked softly. "I've come this far. I will not back out now. But all I know is that he's the murdered prince's son and was stolen away."

Ah. Kíli made a mental note to tell her Thorin's story. But not tonight. Putting her at ease was more important. "Fíli is an excellent warrior and well loved in Erebor," he told her eagerly. But that was no way to placate fears. "He's golden, like you. It must come from his father. I've only seen blond hair from the White Mountains. He's honest and forthright. If you're good at politics you might have to help him with it."

That got a small smile from her. "Is he a good man?" she asked, loosing her hold on her robe and looking down at Kíli as if she trusted him.

"He is one of the best men I know," he answered firmly. "He will treat you with respect and affection, even before you learn to love one another."

"Can you be sure we will?"

"Ma says she and prince Lofar did." They had loved each other as good friends, but it had been enough. "Fíli wants this marriage. He wants to love you."

"He doesn't even know me," she said, only a trifle bitterly.

"And that is why you will _learn_ to love one another," Kíli answered, eager to quell her fears. "He asked the envoys for anything they would tell him about you, and had gifts commissioned as soon as the decision was made. He's filled your rooms with all the comforts he can think of, and would spare no expense to try and please you."

That was the end of that conversation, and the next day they acted like it had never happened.

Legolas, good friend that he was, insisted on meeting the new princess of Erebor. She was led out on her father's arm, skirts so wide and heavy that it must have been hard for her to move in them on her own. She joined them at the feast and was toasted by the Elves. Kíli glanced down the table at her and saw a pale blush and the smallest of smiles on her face.  
Their last stop was in Dale, and Kíli sent a runner up to the mountain to let them know that they would arrive the next day. That night, he slipped into her room again.

"Are you scared, sister?" He asked, kneeling at her side and taking her hand in his own.

"Yes," she admitted, holding tightly. "Tell me of Erebor, Kíli. Don't let me go into my new home ignorant."

"It's been two years since we stole it back from the dragon," he said. "It's still not as rich and beautiful as it was before, but it's getting there. Our people are rougher than the ones you're leaving behind. Over a hundred years in exile means that even our old nobility don't act like it anymore. The mines are producing again, and the forges have been cleaned. Erebor's craftsmen were renowned the world over before Smaug, and we're fighting to regain that."

He paused to give her a chance to ask questions or respond to what he had said, but she just nodded. "I've heard that the women of the White Mountains are known for their skill with jewels. Do you share that?"

The hand in his own trembled. "I-- have never been drawn to gold," she said, voice fearful.

"Not everyone is," he said, bringing his second hand to her trembling one. "There is nothing to be ashamed of there. Do you work silver?"

Her eyes were cast down when she answered. "I love iron and steel."

"Have we been given an armorer?" Kíli asked eagerly, eyes alight.

She stared. "A noblewoman working in iron is a disgrace...."

He shook his head. "I told you, all of Erebor has lived as displaced paupers. I work leather and bone. The king himself has already said that his heir's first son will have his first sword crafted by none other. We are royalty, and we have labored as hard as any other in the recovery of our home. If you know iron and steel, you are the best gift we could have been given."  
The hopeless resignation that had been in her eyes gave way to cautious hope. He kissed her knuckles, and went to pen another note that got into the mountains by one of Nori's nightrunners.

She rode a pony into the mountain, all the people of Erebor turned out in their best to see her. Kíli and her father led her to the throne, where Thorin came down to personally greet her as family. While her father seemed to think it a great impropriety, what could he say? And Kirta grew more confident and stood straighter as the things Kíli told her seemed true.

Her bridal finery surpassed anything in Erebor in grandeur. Fíli looked like a peasant standing next to her in his best. But both of them gleamed golden in the light funneled in from the gates, and both voices were strong in their vows. When they were through, Fíli bowed to kiss her knuckles, Thorin and Dís kissed her roundly on both cheeks, and Kíli gave her an enthusiastic hug.

Her crowning, as a princess of the realm, was a separate ceremony, and left the people cheering as they funneled into the feasting halls. The drinking and merrymaking lasted long into the night. She could not be kept apart anymore, as she had been on the journey, and everyone wanted to meet her. She was bowed to by old nobility, curtsied respectfully to trusted advisers, and had children piled into her arms and lap. Kíli was glad to see her smile, gladder to see her laugh at something Fíli said to her. It was obviously a true laugh, head tipped back and eyes nearly closed.

And when Fíli led her away to their chambers, amid the catcalls of the lower classes they called friends, she showed no fear. And less than a day after her father left, she wore far more sensible clothes, narrow at the wrist with skirts that left her free to walk. When Kíli saw her, she was speaking with Thorin and Glóin, glowing with confidence and pleasure.

Fíli's future happiness was assured, and Kíli was glad to see that Kirta's was as well.


	22. The Message

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gandalf is given a burden by a dying Dwarf.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was not at all what I meant to write. Where did this come from? What is it doing here?

The Dwarf lay broken in the dark, dirty cell. He would be going nowhere else - at least one of his legs had been broken, possibly cut off. He was in too much pain to tell.

The ring had been stolen. The one that had been in their line so long, that he had been given for safe keeping. The Orcs torturing him had taken it. All he had left was the map and key. They hadn't cared about those.

Just more things he had lost. His home was long gone, and with it his wealth, and power. The ring was now gone, and with it the hope of more wealth. His wife was gone, and his children.

His breath stopped in his throat. His children? But they had survived the mountain, hadn't they? His heir, his dark artist, and his baby girl? They still lived?

He pushed his thoughts, and dimly remembered a lovely young lady helping tend him. Was that his daughter? Had he truly fallen so far that he lost them before being lost?

He had little enough breath, but he howled his losses to the uncaring dungeon.

The Dwarf had little sense of time. All he knew was that it was short. Even the Orc guards didn't torment him anymore. He no longer was able to give them reactions that amused.

But he would have to be far more gone not to recognize the grey Wizard.

"Tharkûn," he croaked, surprised he had a voice. The key and map were stained with his blood, and the hands that held them were broken and shaking, but he held them out. "Tharkûn, my son. My son needs these. He needs them. He can't go home without them. Home. Home is gone...."

The Wizard watched him silently, the Dwarf didn't know for how long. He rambled, not knowing what words he said as he waited, holding out the items. Finally they were taken in large, comforting hands.

"Who is your son?"

Didn't he know? "My thunder. Give my heir, my thunder. My thunder and rain and clear sky. To my thunder for home."

"And who shall I say gave them to me?" the Wizard asked, voice infinitely sympathetic and gentle.

And that gave the Dwarf pause. His name was gone, lost somewhere in the torture and infection that was killing him. "He will know!" he said finally, voice shrill with terror and hope. "He will know, Tharkûn! My thunder will know me!"

"Of course, dear friend," the Wizard said softly. His eyes filled the Dwarf's vision, and he rested gentle hands on the Dwarf's shoulders. "I'm sure he will."

The whispered assurance was the last thing the old Dwarf heard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tharkûn is the Dwarf name for Gandalf. It basically means "dude with a big stick." Dwarves believe in calling things what they are.
> 
> And yes, Gandalf killed him at the end there. It was a mercy.
> 
> Also, that was what happened to Thráin after he wandered off in the aftermath of Azanulbizar.
> 
> Thorin = thunder  
> Frerin = rain (there was a name pretty close to Frerin with that meaning)  
> Dís = clear sky (just to go with the theme)


	23. Leather and Glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes the ones you love have big secrets.

Vedyn had always been more interested in her craft than in men, but that didn't mean she was sorry to have a workshop near the hot underground pools where the warriors soaked after training. Strong, hot, damp men were quite pleasant to look at, after all, even if that was all she wanted out of them.

And they certainly wouldn't want much to do with her. Life had made her narrow and all angles. While her hair was thick and dark, having a beard was a great detriment for a glassblower and she shaved. Even her long sideburns were cut close, although she shaved runes of protection, health, and prosperity into them when she could. The rest of her hair was in one long braid, curled tightly around her head and safely out of the way of her work.

So it was with some surprise that she felt eyes on her as she set up a ball of glass at the end of her pipe. She looked up and caught wide, dark eyes. The man was still topless and his loose hair dripped water on the stone under his bare feet. He was at the middle of a group of younger Dwarves, and had stopped stock still and was staring.

Not bad, really. When she was sure she'd caught his eye, she started to blow steadily down her pipe, the molten glass at the bottom spreading into the shape of her mold. His face flushed, and there was laughter, which meant that the others around him had some idea what was going on.

She had to break eye contact to check her progress and get the mold set aside to cool. By the time she looked up again, he was gone. Shame. She was sure she wouldn't see him again.

It was several days later that she looked up from cleaning her tools to see the same man back again. He was fully dressed this time, and she absently noticed the braids in his hair as she focused more firmly in the pink in his cheeks and the wide, tea-colored darkness of his eyes.

He opened his hands, showing her a number of ivory colored bone hairpins. Some were curved twists with carved whorls, made to be tucked deep and hold the hair together. Some were long points with elaborate geometric designs at the ends and spiraling curves running their length, made to stick out of a piled hairstyle and show off.

"These are for you," he said, voice only stuttering a little.

The longer she looked, the more his hands trembled. When she looked up, his already wide eyes had gotten wider in terror. She gathered the pins into her own hands, examining them closely.

"These are very pretty."

She looked up to see the burgeoning blaze of his smile, and she was lost. She turned to lay them carefully on a countertop and raised her hands to her hair.

"I might need some help," she called over her shoulders.

The speed with which his gentle fingers closed around her own pleased her.

Kíli started coming regularly. Sometimes he would sit and watch her, others he brought leather work or carving. Some days they hardly spoke a word to me another, and others they had trouble working for all the things they wanted to say.

She kissed him first, pushing him back against a wall and pressing her body and mouth to his. He groaned softly into her, arms wrapping tight around her middle. It was long, full of the passion she had thought she only had for glass, and more sweet and adoring than she had any right to hope. It became a tradition for him to kiss her in greeting when he arrived and again when he left.

"I will be gone for five to six months," he told her, head hanging shame, one morning.

"The White Mountains?" she asked, pausing over the melting glass in the fire.

"How did you know?" he asked, wide eyed innocence seeming out of place on someone his age and experience, but so perfectly _Kíli_ that all she could do was snort with fond amusement.

"I think the crown prince has ordered gifts from everyone who crafts. This girl is the business of the whole mountain." She shifted the crucible aside so the glass wouldn't turn bad, and moved close to him. "I think," she told him, stepping close and raising a brow, "that you should give me a proper farewell."

The man who approached her workshop the next day had hair too outlandishly styled to do a day's honest work. He watched her until she cocked a brow at him, mouth a set line.

"Lead him on a merry chase if you want. Turn him down flat if you must. But if you lead him on when you intend to say no, your family will never find you."

That made her pause. With everything they'd discussed, family hadn't come up much. He talked about his Da all the time - his Da had taught him to work leather, there was no avoiding him - but that was all she knew of his family, and more than he knew of hers. She had time, while he was gone, to wonder what relation her menacer was, and if she should seek out more information on her own.

In the end, the order for wine glasses and cosmetic bottles for the new princess kept her almost too busy to think about Kíli. In short, free moments, she made him small charms. He liked that kind of thing, brightly colored and small enough to attach to his quiver or put somewhere visible to announce himself. He gave them to his archers when they did a good job, and several of them visited her with stories of training during the months he was away.

She was in the middle of the crowds on the day they came home. Business had been good enough, especially with the royal order, for her to be dressed as well as any. And with her dark hair piled high and held with the pins Kíli had made her, she felt the equal of any Dwarf in the mountain.

Her first thought, seeing him lead the new princess up to Erebor, was that he was more endearingly wonderful than she had remembered, braids ending with the bright glass beads she had made him. The second was to wonder just what he was doing leading the expedition. The third was to wonder how she had managed to not understand that her Kíli was the second prince of Erebor.

_It was right in his braids! How had she managed to ignore it?_

He found her during the feast, eyes bright, face flushed with happiness. "Vedyn!" he crowed, sweeping her off her feet and spinning her around. "Did you miss me?"

He was so eager for her answer, such a mix of childish hope and adult desire. He was everything she hadn't known she wanted. And apparently he was a prince.

Damn all the detractors, she decided, pulling him in for a kiss. He might be a prince, but he was her prince and she would deal with anyone who tried to take him from her. The way his arms tightened around her let her know he agreed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not exactly the awkward flirting I promised Gingerninjabread. Hopefully acceptable nonetheless.
> 
> Thankfully, I think Vedyn is more than a match for Nori's threats. When Bifur starts coming down, she might be a bit more nervous.


	24. Birthday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Kíli's first birthday in Erebor (well, his first birthday that he's conscious for).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My aunt had a birthday party this past weekend. Just set me thinking about birthdays.

The late autumn day had been bright and clear, not a cloud in the sky as the brothers rode their ponies down into Dale to see how the restoration was going and wander the market. They laughed and bought silly trinkets for their families, glad to share their money with the Men of Dale.

It was strange to Kíli, the idea that he could buy whatever he wanted. His gifts were smaller and more practical than Fíli's, tools and food instead of accessories and extras. Fíli laughed at him for it, especially when he picked out the largest, reddest apple and tucked it in his saddle bag.

It was nearing twilight when they returned to the mountain, and the youths cared for their ponies before turning towards home.

"Will you come home with me?" Fíli asked, putting a hand on his brother's shoulder.

Kíli hesitated. He just wanted to go home to his Da and uncles, but he wasn't sure how to explain. He had nearly forgotten his own birthday - only remembering when he saw the smooth, perfect apples. Fíli would be upset to have missed knowing about it, would want to spend the time with him. And why shouldn't he? After all, Fíli and Dwalin and Ma were his family as well. Family he had never shared a birthday with.

So, even if he couldn't tell them to spare worry and rushed wishes, he could still spend the time with him. Da hadn't mentioned it, so it was possible that they'd all forgotten in the mountain, the turn of the seasons not so familiar.

They walked up to the palace, saddlebags over their shoulders, and Kíli made sure to keep the apple safe from bruising. He smelled familiar cooking as they approached the family room and saw his brother's smirk just before the door was pushed open.

Everyone was there, and Kíli stared with an amazement that must have been obvious. There was a deep chuckle from his Da, and his Ma came over and hugged him tight.

"I have never forgotten what this day is," she said softly, and Kíli felt tears prick his eyes as he hugged back, burying his face in her hair.

"We can't say the same, lad," Bofur said, giving him a rough embrace from the side. "But we were a bit more worried about if you'd live than how old you were last year."

Kíli leaned into him, then allowed the two to lead him to the table. It was piled with his favorites: root vegetables fried with bacon, good, brown bread with butter, jam, and honey, and ducks stuffed with apples and onions. And of course, pie. There were several this year, considering the number of people around. Kíli smiled up at Bombur, who tucked his braids back affectionately.

"You can focus on more than the food, lad," Nori laughed, directing his attention to a pile of gifts.

He wasn't used to more than one, and the fact that there was a pile made him gasp in delight. After making sure he had a well honeyed slice of bread, he reached out and began to deconstruct the pile.

There were several well made, waterproofed leather pouches that could be tucked into a larger pack or tied to a belt. Balin had gotten them for him, thinking them practical and something Kíli would find useful.

Nori had given him an elaborate puzzle box as a place to store valuables. Once he figured out the puzzle, of course. And no asking Ori for hints, because that was cheating.

Óin replaced his pipe, claiming that the sound was off on the old one. Kíli worked hard to hide his laughter, but brought the new one to his lips and played a song of joy for the large family that surrounded him with all the love he could ever want.

Thorin and Dwalin had obviously conspired. Thorin had made him a sword. The first sword that was specifically for him and not just borrowed from Fíli, or taken from the armory, or something to use for practice and put away. His very own sword, made by his uncle, just for him. And Dwalin had gotten him everything he would need for it: sheath and belt, whetstone and all tools for cleaning and tending.

Kíli then found a familiar pile of tools and looked up in confusion. Glóin admitted to absconding with them, although with Bifur's help. He had sharpened and fixed all of the leather working tools, stating that they showed excellent care for being over fifty years old. And he had added carving tools so that Kíli would be able to shape things out of bone and antler properly.

Dís passed velvet bags to Kíli and Fíli both. They looked at each other and opened them as one. Inside were beads and clasps, rings, ear cuffs, and pendants. They blinked up at Dís and she stroked their hair and pointed out what had belonged to their grandparents, what to their uncle, what to Thrór. And they held the bags tightly, because gold and jewels were the least of the treasure they had been given.

And then the final present, and Kíli tipped his he'd back and laughed, because he hadn't been given toys since he'd passed thirty. But Bifur and Bofur had conspired, as they always did since Bifur's hands weren't steady enough to carve. And Kíli picked up the fearsome dragon and brave Dwarf warrior and examined them with glee.

Wonder of wonders, the dragon could lift its wings and open its mouth menacingly. And the warrior could brandish either sword or bow. Further examination showed that the sword had been made to match his new one, and Kíli beamed at all of his uncles.

The joints were Dori's work. He had encountered Bifur and Bofur discussing Bifur's idea for the dragon and thought he knew how to make it work. He had also helped craft the bow, and made sure the warrior could actually fire it. This had involved finding his fine tools, which had alerted Ori to the upcoming birthday, and Ori had offered to paint the figures.

Though the others raised brows at the toys, none were surprised when Kíli tossed the warrior to his brother and began flying the dragon around the room as if he were a small child. Indeed, watching the two of them, the group thought they could see how their children would be one day.

And after that, there was music and dancing, dinner and pie, singing and stories. And with everyone there, it was the loudest, most amazing birthday Kíli could remember.

Still, the best part came after he went home. He pulled the apple out and presented it to his Da, and the two of them sat close and shared it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that is completely Vorin and Onur fifteen years later. Yup yup, playing with daddy's toys.


	25. To Love You All My Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dwalin and Dís have always loved each other.

The tiny, golden boy held up his arms and smiled beatifically. "Da!"

Dís' heart constricted as she watched Dwalin gather her baby into his strong arms.

"I wish I was your Da," he whispered, and Dís turned stone still. Dwalin was so gentle with the three year old child, who was babbling at him. He looked so sad when Fíli again called him Da.

"Dwalin..." It took Dís a moment to realize that the voice was her own and she was willing to make this gamble.  
The man turned, eyes narrowed suspiciously, and it broke her heart.

"You could be like his Da. You already are, really. We could-- we are--" She stepped closer, feeling every bit of her youth as she hadn't when she had been with Lofar. But Lofar was older than even Dwalin, old enough to be gravely courteous to someone who was little more than a child bride.

But this was important. She moved another step closer, reaching out to touch Dwalin's arm. All the words she had imagined saying had vanished from her mind and dried up in her throat, and all she could do was look up at him with everything she felt naked in her eyes.

He was so warm under her fingers, and she could feel him tremble.

"We shouldn't," he said, and she felt a stab of hope. It was a negation, but "we shouldn't" was different than "I don't want to," and he said it as though he did. "You're widowed, lass," he said, and his voice was almost desperate. "And so young. We shouldn't. Thorin would never forgive me."

It was enough to bring her the final step, arms straining around the breadth of his shoulders. She had to look up this close, blue eyes meeting brown. "But you want me."

He tensed under her arms, looking at Fíli so he wouldn't have to see her eyes. "We have more to think about than want. I don't know why you're suddenly interested...."

"Dwalin." She had to stop him. "Dwalin...." Wouldn't he look at her? She took a deep breath. "I was fifteen when we lost Erebor."

"Three days," he said softly, still settling Fíli in his arms.

He remembered. She had told him, on that birthday, that she would marry him when she was old enough. And though she had willingly gone along with her brother's plan, her heart had never belonged to her husband. It had been lost when she was a child.

"When we ran and I was tired, you carried me," she said. "You never complained. You never let anyone else do it. Dwalin--" Her voice was almost a sob this time.

He finally looked at her again, and both of them fell silent. The raw desire in their eyes, the want and love and despair, did all the talking for them.

"You're not even sixty," he whispered, and the self loathing evident in his voice made her love him more.

"Be his Da," she said in return. "I always wished you were." When she leaned up, he let her kiss him and kissed her back. "I love you," she breathed as their lips parted.

"We shouldn't," he repeated, voice a whisper this time. But already he was shifting Fíli to sit in the crook of one arm so he could raise the other hand to caress her cheek.

She turned and kissed his palm, then murmured "I don't care" against his skin.

His hand slid around to the nape of her neck, tugging her in lightly until her head was tucked under his chin. "I've always wanted to protect you. To make you happy. I would be your husband. I would be Fíli's Da. I would be anything you ask of me."

Fíli was looking at both of them with wide eyes, so she took one arm from around Dwalin to tickle the boy gently. The other stayed tightly gripping his shirt. "And would you want to be those things?"

She felt a kiss on the crown of her head. "Oh, lass. I've never wanted anything as much as I want the two of you."

"Then you may have us, Dwalin," she said, amazed that in the end it was so easy. "You may have me. To the end of my days, I will love no other."

"Dís," Dwalin answered, and the sound of her name on his lips should not have been able to make her as happy as it did. "As long as I have breath, you and your son will be the first in my heart."

It wasn't a marriage - it couldn't be. But standing in her home and holding two of the people most precious to her, Dís felt as if it was. They had bound themselves together, their hearts and passions one in a way she had never experienced. And the little family of three was whole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The way I'm fudging age equivalents, 60 is basically Dwarf 18. Dwalin, at this point is mid 80s, so figure him to be around 23.


	26. Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo Baggins reminds Thorin of something he lost.

The first words out of his mouth were mockery. The Hobbit, the one Gandalf claimed was essential to their quest, compared it to a child's game. And while Thorin sneered a reply and swept by him, a piece of his heart that had been empty for ninety years perked up.

And because of that, he was determined that when they left in the morning the Hobbit would be safely in his home. It was an unsuccessful gambit, but there was nothing Thorin could do about it but try and make him turn back. The contract hadn't been signed in front of witnesses. Thorin would let him out of it in an instant if asked.

But he never was. He sneered and insulted the burglar, and all he got in return was laughter and mockery. And every laugh and every irreverent word reminded him of his brother. Frerin, long dead, was the only one to treat him that way. It was part of his brother he hadn't realized he missed.

The road east was a long one, and many things happened. He watched his nephews grow close without knowing their relationship, and he smiled. Gandalf pestered him to visit Elves, and he growled. Balin and Glóin kept him up to date on information gathered, and he was serious and in charge. Bilbo Baggins complained and made faces, and he insulted him.

Completely without meaning to, Thorin's insults turned to teasing. And without a pause, Bilbo's responses became teasing as well. Somewhere past Bree, Thorin found his eyes drifting to the Hobbit as often as they drifted toward his nephew. The difference was that Bilbo noticed. He was far too polite to say anything, but he would look back whenever he caught Thorin's eyes on him. He would gravely meet Thorin's gaze for a moment, and then his face would relax into a small, comforting smile. It was galling to know that the burglar thought he needed reassurance.

It was awful to realize, the night Fíli came running to tell them of Trolls, that Bilbo had been correct. The sight of him in the hands of the Trolls made Thorin freeze. Even if there had been another option other than giving up, he wouldn't have been able to think of it.

He waited an entires day before he allowed himself to roughly check Bilbo for wounds, and in that time they had been chased by Orcs and Wargs and threatened by Elves. Even if it turned out to be a hospitable invitation, Thorin could not trust them.

Bilbo followed him after he snarled at Fíli for telling Kíli his true parentage. When Thorin sank against a wall in a dark room, the Hobbit settled next to him, pressed against his side from shoulder to hip. He said nothing, simply sitting with him like a brother. Like Dwalin had tried at times, but always ultimately failed at.

He found himself talking about Frerin. About how much he blamed himself for his brother's death. About how he missed Frerin's sharp tongue as much as he missed his keen eye. He had never appreciated, when they were young, how Frerin made him think. There was no question that Thorin was the leader, but Frerin had never followed mindlessly. He had demanded that Thorin explain himself, as no one had for years.

And sitting in Rivendell, worn out and with a long way to go, Thorin questioned himself.

Bilbo listened quietly, reaching out to slip his small hand into Thorin's. "I am not Frerin," he said softly when it was obvious Thorin was finished speaking. "But I could be a brother to you. If you'd let me."

"I would rather you stayed here or went safely home," Thorin said. "I cannot guarantee your safety, and I would not have you perish on a fool's quest like he did."

"I never asked for guarantees," Bilbo answered. "And this is not as foolish a quest as you let everyone believe. It is important to you, so it is important to me. I will remind you of that as much as you need, and I will question you when it is needed."

He paused and looked down at their joined hands. "And I will sit beside you and listen to your fears, if you will do the same for me."

Thorin looked down at the Hobbit. He was, as Gandalf had said, more than he seemed. He leaned down to knock their heads together, as family and close friends did. Bilbo had seen enough on the journey that he smiled up at Thorin, mouth curling into real pleasure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Earlier than you thought it would happen? Yeah, me too. But Bilbo is really so background throughout the story that it's hard to know what his relationship with any of them really is. And that's sort of strange to me, considering the Hobbit is really a story about Bilbo.


	27. Axes and Spears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bifur's ties to reality are sometimes tenuous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning!** This chapter contains violence, death, and mental illness.

They counted on being hidden enough to be safe, and in hindsight that was a horrible idea. It was a small settlement - only around fifty - and only a few were fighters. The rest were crafters of varying kinds. Bifur worked leather, Ríl wove and sewed. Onen made furniture, Cerild beaded. Vornys was one of the few who could fight, as he was their main hunter. He used a bow and brought Bifur most of his hides. The rest Myz got with her boar spear.

They were obviously not careful enough. Bifur was late finishing a haversack in his workshop downwind of the houses when he heard the howl of the Wargs. He wasn't a fighter, so he ducked into the back of his shop, behind his workbench where he would be hidden.

There were the sounds of a fight, but he didn't move. Myz and Vornys and the others who had weapons would take care of it. There wouldn't be many Orcs. Not for a settlement this small.

The scent of fire and the sound of screaming changed his mind. Grabbing a hammer and his awl, Bifur ran from the shop, intending to try and get through whatever was in his way to get to the houses and make sure everyone got out. The intent lasted until he saw that the screaming came from his son.

"Onur!" he shouted, drawing the attention of the laughing Orcs. "Murdering bastards, leave him alone!"

He ran at them, stabbing one in the arm with his awl and smashing another on the head with the hammer. They fell back and he moved forward, hitting out at any that were in the way while his baby boy screamed and the Orc dangled him temptingly.

He was so focused on Onur, trying to calm his fears even as he fought furiously closer, that he didn't notice that he had become the center of Orc attention until it was too late. The sight of the axe was just a blur to his side, and then he was laid out on the ground and everything was pain.

"Thank you, small one," an Orc said in accented and horrible Westron. "You are the only one here who has not bored us."  
Bifur struggled, trying to rise even though his whole body twitched. And the Orcs were watching him, waiting for it, because just as he became upright enough to see, the one holding Onur tossed the boy to the Wargs.

Bifur couldn't hear his son's scream over his own as he watched the beast tear a small arm off, and then the frightening crunch as another crushed Onur's skull. He fell back with a wail, legs unable to hold him, nothing left to fight for. His last conscious thought was that at least he'd be there to take care of his boy in the halls of Mandos.

Smoke from the fires brought help. He learned that later - months later, when he could finally understand. They put out the flames and took back anything salvageable: some weapons, the contents of his workshop, and him.

He woke up the first time screaming, only knowing he was alive because death wouldn't hurt so much. And it hurt to be alive. Apart from the fact that his skull had been split and the healers had to leave the axe head in to prevent more damage, he knew, long before anyone told him, that he was the only one who had lived. For months he lay in a bed, only eating when they forced him, and wished they would stop so he could follow Ríl and Onur. He didn't know why they wouldn't let him, until one day, quite abruptly, he recognized that the person feeding him - the one who had been feeding him - was Bombur.

His young cousin was crying and begging him to eat. Slowly, Bifur opened his mouth. Bombur's tears increased as he fed him. Bofur came in later, and he also cried when he saw that Bifur was coherent. He answered the questions that Bifur couldn't ask because he had no voice yet. They were in the area because their parents had recently died of lung rot from mining. They had come hoping for some kind of miracle, and stayed until the end. Bofur and Bombur had worked for the healers as much as they could to pay for the treatment.

And then Bifur had been brought in, and they were able to identify him. They continued to work for his welfare, and that put off the decisions that were going to have to be made. Bombur was in his early fifties, and Bofur mid sixties. They were both too young to be on their own, and would likely be separated. At their age, no one would want to be saddled with both of them, and they had no other family.

Bifur struggled with them for three months, pushing himself beyond endurance to stand and walk and talk again. They discovered his limitations and strengths. He could speak, and speak eloquently still, but only in Khuzdul. While he understood what was said, his tongue couldn't form the sounds of Westron anymore. He could walk and feed himself, but he couldn't do his work anymore. His hands shook too much to work leather.

Still, he was strong enough to fight, and he made himself learn to. Vornys' bow was too hard, but he spent hours with Myz's boar spear. He learned to thrust and twist, slash and parry. And if he couldn't work leather anymore, he was able to hire himself to a caravan as a guard.

After selling everything except his tools, Bifur paid the healers and said that he would take care of his cousins. They still needed to remind him to eat and sleep - he sometimes lost himself in practice - and they were the ones to regulate the pain medication he had been given and calm him after nightmares. It was quite obvious who was going to take care of whom. But it saved everyone the trouble of figuring out what to do with two young men who were so close to being adults.

Bombur quickly became the main cook for the caravan despite his youth. Bofur turned to carving since they weren't anywhere they could mine. Bifur let him use the tools he could no longer use for leather, and helped him design toys to make and sell at the caravan stops. It was little enough, but they managed.

Bofur laughed a lot, and it took Bifur two years to realize it was because he never did. It didn't seem strange to him. What was there to laugh about? What was there to smile about? Ríl and Onur were gone someplace he couldn't follow. If it weren't for his cousins, he surely would have followed them, and that probably would have been for the best.

He comforted them as he could. After all, they had suffered a huge loss as well. It was strange to him that they could smile and laugh after it. But it seemed to be something to do with his wound, or at least that was what he decided in the end. His happiness had died with his wife and son, and all that was left was darkness.

The only joy he felt was when the caravan was attacked and he got to kill Orcs. He searched among them, all the time, looking for the ones who had destroyed him. And in the end he was rewarded. Almost four years after the attack, he pushed Myz's boar spear through the stomach of an Orc who looked at the axe in his head and recognized it.

"Do I have something of yours?" Bifur growled in Khuzdul. "Allow me to return it."

He head butted the Orc, likely compounding the damage, but he didn't care. The Orcs who had killed his family were dead. It should have changed things, somehow. It should have banished the darkness dwelling in him.

All it did was make the nightmares worse. He wasn't fast enough. He wasn't good enough. Why hadn't he known then what he knew now?

"Why did you fail me?"

He heard it night after night in two beloved voices. Day after day the words haunted him. And when he realized that he was hurting Bofur and Bombur when they held him back from the fits that would follow - the waking nightmares where he tried to prove that he hadn't failed - at that point, he thought he would die of the shame.

He hid from them and tried to keep away from weapons. He tried his hardest to forget. That just made him lose time more easily. And that made him lose himself to despair.

It was at the end of one of those that the girl who had joined the caravan found him. She was young - younger even than Bombur - and she was pregnant. For just a moment, he thought Ríl had come back. But no. This girl was nothing like his Ríl. Except that she was scared for her life, as his wife must have been. He vowed to protect her while she was with the caravan.

And it was more than just protection. No other knew a thing about pregnancy. Despite her brother's initial misgivings, Bifur did all he could to care for the young mother to be. He made sure she had all the best food, made certain she rode in one of the wagons, ensured she had no hard or heavy work to do. Given a chance, he would brush her hair and fill her area with fragrant flowers and grasses.

When she disappeared, he tried to lose himself in his duties, and instead lost himself in time. When they started talking about settling somewhere, his cousins looked older than he could account for. And one day he found himself in a small home that he could navigate with ease, so they had to have been there for some time.

And then one night, Bofur came home, placed a bundle in his arms, and said, "this is Kíli."

Bifur looked down at the infant boy, and felt like he had when he had first been given Onur. His arms curled naturally around the precious bundle, and he felt like he had a proper anchor to reality.


	28. Like His Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Balin sees children he used to know when he sees Kíli.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was meant to be pure fluff the come after the last chapter. I'm not sure how much it is, though. My Balin muse is very quiet and retiring.

For all that he had never seen the boy before, Balin recognized Kíli the moment he came into the room. He looked like Dwalin had all those years ago; brown hair, brown eyes, brown on his skin from being outside. And then the lad smiled, and it was all Dís. And Balin wondered how anyone would miss that when looking at him.

But the lad was young, and Dwalin didn't look like that anymore. He had lost quite a lot of his own brown hair, and his eyes were glaring and shadowed with suspicion. He was a large man, and broad, and that was something Kíli hadn't grown into yet.

Kíli was the heart of their group. Balin felt it. Even those who didn't know the secret of his birth faced him like plants turning to the sun. Of course the three who raised him were always aware of him. And he was thick as thieves with Ori and Fíli (and that phrase only became slightly awkward when Balin realized that Kíli was also friends with Nori). Dori tried to mother him the way he mothered his brothers, but Kíli just laughed, gave him a hug, and went to do whatever he wanted.

Dwalin and Thorin watched him. Of course they did. But they did so without saying anything to him, and so the lad missed it. To start, Balin watched them watch them. They looked so happy, but so pained. His brother straightened with pride every time Kíli caught their dinner or showed his strength and ability, but he couldn't do anything about it. Thorin smiled with fierce joy to see the three lads sitting close and sharing secrets, but he quickly looked away if any of them looked over.

And so Balin started watching this young member of his own family as well. Kíli was his nephew every bit as much as Thorin's, after all, and he had never had sight of him before the quest started.

Óin was often with the little family, checking on Bifur mostly. Balin saw how Kíli gripped his foster father's hand. Saw the way his brows bunched in pain every time Óin gave a pronouncement. And he knew that Kíli was a good son.

The three youngest sat and practiced writing around the campfire at night. Balin watched Kíli leaned seriously over Ori's examples and then copied them. And when Fíli laughed at what had to be childish letters, Kíli just grinned and knocked their shoulders together and wrote what had to be inappropriately dirty words in the dirt to make Fíli laugh harder.

The boy was a good friend, and a good learner. If they had had him, they might have made a scholar of the younger heir of Durin. It was almost a physical pain to Balin that he hadn't had the chance. Teasing out his own nephew's strengths and nurturing them until they shone was a task he would have given almost anything for.

But the boy was bright and happy; quick to smile, quick to laugh, quick to show affection. He was open in a way that Fíli hadn't been since he was old enough to know his position in the world. And Balin couldn't find it in himself to wish that freedom away from Kíli.

After watching for the better part of a week, he allowed himself to do what his brother and cousin couldn't. He approached the young trio and offered to work with them and teach them things they couldn't have encountered at their ages. The smile he received from Kíli nearly knocked the breath out of him.

_Please, brother. No one else makes sense like you to._

_Yes, cousin! You're the only one who's interesting._

_Balin, you understand this more than I ever will. Help me._

He had a hand in Kíli's hair before he could even try to stop himself. There was too much of his brother in that smile, and Frerin and Thorin, for him to remember that the boy hardly knew him. And though he was startled at the touch, the lad didn't pull away. The grin melted into something warmer, something that was all Dís.

When Balin pulled away and started talking about the founding of a city in Erebor, his hand was shaking with the desire to pull all of the boys into his arms and tell them everything.


	29. Some Days Are Not For Work

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some days, Kíli and Vedyn don't get any work done.

"Why did you start glass blowing?"

Vedyn glared down at the man sitting on the floor of her shop. That had never been the opening of a good conversation with a Dwarf. Glass was not a traditional Dwarf craft, so she was often looked down on for pursuing it.

"Why do you work leather?" she demanded in return.

Kíli blinked up at her, and she could see that he didn't understand that she was angry. "My Da taught me," he answered. "He used to work leather. When I started bringing home meat he taught me how to tan so we wouldn't waste the hide."

She sat next to him, curious now that her anger had been placated by his straightforward answer. "And the bone? Is that the same thing?"

He nodded. "More or less. We had little enough. Why waste something that could bring us money?" He put his tools down and leaned against her shoulder. "Is it the same for you? Work you took because you needed work?"

She hesitated. "I do love it."

"And I love the leather and carving," Kíli answered hastily. That wasn't what I meant."

"I know," she said, and found that she did. "We were east of the Iron Hills for several years. Dwarves are rare there, so we got good business out of curiosity. There was a glass blower in the town, and it was one way to stay out of everyone's hair."

He nodded. "I never wanted to be out of their hair," he said with a laugh. "And I think they would have worried if I wasn't there." He picked up his awl, intent for a moment on making holes to sew the pieces of his project together. She picked up the others, looking them over admiringly.

"These are good tools," she praised.

He grinned at her, the proud one that always made her breath catch. "They were a gift."

"A gift from someone with money," she pointed out.

He shrugged. "That day."

And she nodded in return. But he was lucky to have someone who would spend that money on him. Her own brothers valued their ale and card games over a little sister's wish for ribbons and tools. She had spent years saving for the tools she had now, and it had been hard when there was one family need after another making it so the money she had slaved for didn't even go to something that brought her pleasure.

She had almost fallen into the mindset of the rest of her family. Spend what you have on what you want before it gets taken from you. But she needed the tools, so she hid her savings better until she could get them.

"It's a good thing. We never would have had the money for them," Kíli said, breaking into her thoughts. "Poor as squirrels in winter most of the time."

She smiled and pressed a hand to the flatness of his belly. "I can tell," she teased.

He smiled back at her and hesitantly cupped a hand to the curve of her breast. "You certainly have more pleasing curves than I do," he said, then pulled away with a bashful drop of his head.

Vedyn had to admit to disappointment. It was nice having Kíli's hands on her. But he was endearingly shy and she liked seeing him blush. As to the reason for it, "you never moved much, did you?" she asked.

He shook his head. "We lived in the same settlement until we came here," he admitted. "I was always the youngest and the only child."

And that explained it. "I can't imagine it," she said, leaning close so that they were pressed together. "The town with the glassblower we stayed in ten years, and that was the longest I've ever been anywhere."

"What's it like?" Kíli asked, putting his awl down and turning to wrap his arms and her.

She shrugged, snuggling in. "It's all I ever knew. I suppose it must be small, really. Everything here looks so huge."

He nodded agreement. "Our cabin could fit in one room of our home here. I don't know how we'll ever fill it."

"I never will," she said, tucking her head comfortably under his chin. "Imagine owning enough to fill that space. You could never pack it to leave."

His arms tightened. "I don't want you to leave," he said petulantly.

She tipped her head back to look at him and smiled. Arms snaking around his shoulders, she tugged him down into a kiss. By the time they broke away, she was flat on her back with Kíli a warm weight over her. She smiled at him, the fingers of one hand sliding down his stubble rough cheek and winding into his hair. "If you're here, I'll stay a while," she said, and while the words were teasing, the tone was all promise.

He smiled back at her, understanding her meaning - perhaps better than she did. He leaned down to kiss her again, and they had no more time for talk that afternoon.


	30. Mirkwood Dungeon #4 - Ori & Balin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Balin plots

"Can you get me paper, ink, and pens?"

The Elf guard sneered down at Balin. "Won't do you any good. No one will take notes to your friends."

Balin's brows raised mildly. "In that case, there's no reason to deny me them." He waved a hand at Ori, who was sitting against the wall with his eyes closed, mouth moving soundlessly and fingers twitching. "My student needs to practice."

The guard shifted, looking a little nervous. When he went to have a whispered conversation with someone down the hall, Balin knew he had won.

Indeed, the tools were thrust through the bars at him less than an hour later. Ori, recognizing the sound of paper moving against paper, opened his eyes and gave a cry of delight.

"You're to speak Westron when you have ink and paper, and we'll collect them when your dinner is brought."

Balin nodded his understanding and brought the supplies to where Ori was quivering with desire. "Watch me, lad," he said, dipping the quill into the ink. "You're not used to quills."

He wrote carefully, his lines of cirth marching evenly across the page. _The burglar has been watching your lessons. He can read cirth runes. Write Westron with them._

Ori stilled as he read what Balin had written.

"Continue from there."

The youth took the quill, holding it to his lips a moment while he thought. Then he leaned over and filled a page with things they had heard around them. The guards didn't know who they were or what their lines of work were, and didn't realize they understood Sindarin. It wasn't the best understanding, but when they gossiped - pretending all the time it was important orders - the Dwarves understood enough that they could give Bilbo a basic idea of guard rotations and who would be easiest to get past.

Finally, Ori held out the paper for Balin to look at. He skimmed down it, finding that he had nothing to add. The youth's choice of profession was an apt one. He snorted and thew the paper behind him, toward the door where it would be simple for an invisible hand to take it without notice.

"Barely acceptable," he said. "Do you think you're writing something that no one else will see? Try again. The creation of the seven fathers, this time."

Balin noticed how slowly and carefully Ori worked at forming his cirth. He leaned back and closed his eyes. Really, he was too old for sitting in a dungeon and plotting. It was something more suited to the youngsters like Ori and the princes.

He was woken from a light doze when Ori held out the pages of the tale for him. He perused them, nodded grudging acceptance, and passed them to the guard waiting to give them dinner. The page of information gathered was already gone.

The next day, they were given writing supplies without having to ask. Balin wrote a note telling Ori to be careful of his wording and set him to writing new gossip and information. There was little enough, and he filled the page with assurances that they were fine and trusted Bilbo.

Balin looked it over and tossed it to the corner. "Did I teach you nothing about composition of the page?" he asked rhetorically. He hadn't, obviously. Ori wasn't his student. But the obvious difference between his wide, easy handwriting in the middle of the page and the scrunched up letters when he hit the edge of the page was something that had to be addressed.

He took a sheet of paper and the quill, showing the youth how to visually divide up a page to lay out what he needed to write. He used the standard marriage contract as an example, choosing how they fit across the page so he could make names and dates darker and leave room for traditional blessings between the names of witnesses.

"It's easier to do with charcoal," he said, smudging the ink of one guideline with his thumb. "And a marriage contract without colored borders should go to the edge of the paper, of course."

To his surprise, they got charcoal and colored ink the next day. He examined them while Ori wrote the day's note to Bilbo. Balin allowed himself to smile when he saw that the page had been filled with notes about Mirkwood and variations of verses on the burglar's bravery. He wished he could see the Hobbit's face when he read them.

With the colored inks and the charcoal, they branched out. They practiced the marriage contract again, and Balin showed Ori traditional embellishments and then let him experiment with his own.

In the time they were there, they worked on baby name placards, adulthood rituals, illuminated letters, signs and prayers. Ori would have made an excellent scribe if he was not already almost a scop, and by the time they escaped Balin had taught him many things that could aid his recording and telling of stories.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Balin is a tricky bugger, isn't he?


	31. Fisher King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil reflects on his madness.

Memories of the past two hundred years wavered and danced like the air on a hot day. Thranduil spent much time in his personal rooms, and there were weeks together when Legolas ran things for him. Legolas was leading his warriors in cleaning up the Greenwood, which kept Thranduil off balance with the disappearance of the darkness that had invaded and held his heart for so long.

Had he really meant to kill a baker's dozen of Dwarves? Had the promise of treasure honestly been enough for him to contemplate the murder of those with no defense against him? He could hardly believe it, except that the thoughts were his own and he knew them to be true.

Thúlamdir made the decision about his fitness most days, but there were some mornings he awoke and called his son to him and his people were left to their own devices. And he found that while he contemplated Dwarves he often needed his son's hands in his own to ground him and remind him that he was no longer what he had been, and the shadow was being banished both from his kingdom and himself.

He had refused to risk himself and his people against Smaug. This he understood and approved. The dragon was in the mountain. Archers would be no use there, and if the Dwares couldn't free their own home, what chance did Elves have? He stood by the decision to protect the lives of his people, and the lives of the Dwarves who would have turned back to their deaths by dragon fire.

But he had not offered food. He had not offered shelter. He had offered no word of explanation or condolence to the Dwarves who had been his allies. He could have done much good at that time, but he had just retreated to his home and surrounded himself with luxury while the Dwarves wandered penniless and without friend.

"How can I make amends?" he asked in a whisper. "How can I even begin to apologize?"

Legolas' hands curved strng around his own, and when he looked up he son met his eyes with love. "We will find a way, father," he said reassuringly.

And when Legolas stated it so simply, Thranduil felt it might be true. And somewhere in the forest, a beardtongue began to bloom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do not hate Thranduil. He was driven mad by the Necromancer and darkening of his Greenwood. He's better now. This is really the first time he can think of his actions with a normal person's compassion and conscience. Thankfully, he has a loving son to help him get better and find a way to make up for things.
> 
> [Information on the trope of the fisher king.](http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/FisherKing)
> 
> Also, there is a flower called a beardtongue. It grows in mountains. See? It's appropriate. [It is also pretty.](http://www.prairiemoon.com/image.php?id=1295&type=D)


	32. Mothering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ori's family has a visitor.

Ori was working on reading and writing with a group of boys in his room when he heard Nori's venomous "what are you doing here?" Heads came up and the boys moved closer, because Nori was the age and temperament to make neglected children nervous. Ori smiled comfortingly and went to poke his head out the door. If there was a real problem, it would be best if he was a surprise.

The children who had been playing with Nori - currently ten of them and the youngest ones - had shrunk back against the wall and were watching with closed off expressions that they rarely saw anymore. Nori was on his feet, growling enough to make _Ori_ want to go hide, facing off against an old woman.

She looked familiar, although Ori was sure he'd never met her before. He eased through his door, wishing he had Nori's room, which was properly out of the line of sight from the door. But the pair were glaring at one another, and only the children acknowledged his presence with wary glances that begged for his help.

"Why shouldn't I be here?" she snapped. "I am a respectable Dwarf, not some dragon's child that can't do anything right. I suppose these are your bastards?" She sneered.

"Mine?" Nori asked, and Ori couldn't help thinking that if he weren't so angry he would be laughing. "Of course not. They're Dori's."

Ten heads snapped in his direction, and Ori watched as the children his oldest brother was fostering straightened with wonder and pride. Cunning Nori, who used words as a weapon as much as his knives, had told them in two words what they all wished in their hearts was true. Ori nodded and smiled at them when they turned to him for confirmation.

"We haven't seen you in ninety years," Nori continued, and a sudden chill went up Ori's spine. "You made Dori mad with worry when you vanished like that." He waited for her to start looking smug and continued. "Until he found where you'd put Ori."

Ori leaned back against the wall as he looked at the woman again. White hair intricately braided like Dori's, Nori's thin face, the large nose the younger two brother's shared. She was about the height they all were, or slightly smaller as if she had softened with age rather than hardened like Balin had.

This was his mother, the one who had disappeared soon after he was born. He had never really been curious about her - Dori was more than enough parent and as good as mother and father combined. So he had told anyone unwise enough to make fun of him for being raised by his brother, and so he still believed. He wanted to hide now, because he didn't want to know anything of her and because there was nothing she could say to him that wouldn't make Nori gut her where she stood.

"Where is Dori?" she demanded with a frown. " _He_ was always a dutiful son, even if he insisted on wearing that dragon pin. He would help his own mother and not treat her like a criminal."

"Still at it," Nori breathed, his anger white hot and quiet now. "Poor Iari is always hurt more than anyone else and deserves more than her share of any hand out. And now you've heard that Dori has a fortune for being the hero he always was to me and the other dragons and you've come to try and guilt it out of him."

There was a moment of silence, during which the truth of Nori's words was clear on the woman's face, and then Nori was incandescent again. "Get out of here now! If I have any indication you've so much as looked at him, no one will ever find your body!"

She was terrified, understandably and sensibly, and fled. But after the door slammed shut there was a moment of tearing and a twisted stomp of boots before the sound of her running.

"She destroyed the dragon," Nori said with certainty. "Kimryn!"

One of Ori's students dashed out of the room and deftly caught the pouch of coins that was tossed to him.

"Good, red ribbon. Best you can find. Enough for everyone here." Nori's voice was clipped as he worked at suppressing his anger again. "I'll teach everyone how to knot a dragon. And get honey cakes on the way back. We all need something sweet after being near that bitter old hag."

He looked up as Kimryn left and saw Ori. "She doesn't need to be honored by being mentioned, does she?" he asked.

Ori shook his head. He had never felt like he had to know about his mother, and after seeing her he could only wish he never had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two updates together!
> 
> It has been referenced before that Ori is helping Dori raise the children of the dragon generation. At the time of this bit (which is only around a year or two after they take back the mountain), they have around 20 kids under 30 (which would be 14ish). The youngest is 2. Nori helps out too, when he has the time.
> 
> Most of the kids have suffered neglect, because their parents didn't know how to be parents. A few have been abused, either because it was the norm the parent grew up with or because of the after effects of growing up abused, but that is a thankfully small minority. They do all have trust issues, but Uncle Dori (because he doesn't want them all calling him Mother) is able to give the vast majority of them what they need to heal. Most, if not all, of the kids adore him, even the ones who find mentors elsewhere.
> 
> This is most likely the only time their mother will show up. Because Nori would completely follow through on his threat.


	33. The Dragon's Children

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Dragon generation leaves its children with Dori

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been mostly written for a while, but I'm always very hesitant with OC POV. Elenorasweet asked me to post it anyway. Thank you for your confidence! I hope this warrants it!

An had never been in a real mountain before, and he looked around curiously as he trailed after his mother, keeping the two younger ones between them where he could see them. Truth be told, the mountain was amazing, even though it was ragged and old looking, but that was to be expected since it had just been retaken.

They stopped at a door, and An saw a knotted dragon on it, faded and frayed but still prominently and proudly displayed. Ma gave the familiar dragonfire knock, and in a moment the door was opened.

"You've grown, Ori!" Ma exclaimed, flashing teeth in a grin that was more than An usually saw on her.

"You're not that much older to be able to say that," the young Dwarf answered, aggrieved. He stepped aside and waved her in, eyes widening in astonishment at the trio following.

An ducked his head, used to being looked at as a curiosity. He glanced up when Ma greeted "Mother Dori," but the Dwarf she was hugging (she rarely hugged them, so this stranger was obviously better than they were) was male. An didn't think about it much. His mother rarely made sense.

She herded them forward, and An felt the brief touch of a hand at his shoulder blade letting him know where she wanted him.  
"Well, Kofi!" Mother Dori exclaimed, voice rich and golden with pleasure. It would be sad to disappoint him.

"Mother would you...? I'm sure I've ruined An already, but Tofi and Nyr might be salvageable."

She'd never said it that clearly before, and An's shoulders hunched. He was ruined. Of course he was. The oldest, always in her way, first chain to hold her back.

"What a horrible thing to say of a child!" Pale blue eyes suddenly looked up into his and An realized Mother Dori had crouched to see up under his loose hair. "You're not ruined, are you, An?"

What did he know? If Ma said it, it must be truth. He was determined to say nothing, to wait until the patience died and the expression turned hard and cold and angry. He could already hear Ma fidgeting behind him so it couldn't be long.

But the eyes stayed warm, and the small smile didn't freeze in place, and Mother Dori waited. And maybe that was something he could believe in. And if Mother Dori said it, then maybe....

He shuttered his eyes and whispered "No."

He felt himself pulled close to the older Dwarf, an arm around his shoulders. An looked up, jaw set with confusion.

"You see, Kofi?" Mother Dori said with a wide smile. Tofi wandered closer and reached toward his hand. The older Dwarf pulled her in on the other side. "You, all of you, have too little hope."

Baby Nyr toddled over and was scooped up by Ori-who-answered-the-door. He crowed at the unfamiliar touch, laughing as they had never heard. Mother and siblings all looked at him in understated astonishment.

Mother Dori's voice was warm. "None of them need to be salvaged because they're all fine."

Ma left, and Ori right after, while Mother Dori led the three children to the bath. To An's surprise, he didn't leave once they knew where it was, bending to pump the water into the tub and helping Tofi out of her clothes.

"I can do it," An said softly.

The older Dwarf smiled at him. "But you shouldn't have to." He washed Nyr and Tofi with practiced ease, and made sure An got behind his ears before helping him with his hair and back. The children were then wrapped in soft, old shirts, and he brushed and braided their hair.

An watched quietly, as Nyr's dark hair was gathered in the back and held with a filigreed clasp. Tofi's ginger curls were braided together with dark purple ribbons that tied them off at the end. When Mother Dori turned to him, An initially shrank back. But he wasn't ruined. And hiding was something ruined people did.

When Mother Dori was finished, An had two small braids plaited flat against his head from his temples to his nape and then tied together with the ends left loose. "Now I can see those dark eyes."

Indeed, An found he couldn't hide behind a curtain of his hair like he was used to. It was strange to him. Ma didn't braid their hair. She didn't wear braids herself. Everything Mother Dori did was different. But that wasn't bad. An shifted a little closer to the older Dwarf.

He got a smile in response, and Nyr and Tofi climbed into Mother Dori's lap where they fell asleep cuddled close. It had been a long day, and An felt himself leaning in and falling asleep himself.

He started to wake when he was lifted, and felt a comfortingly deep voice rumbling against him.

"Nori and his agemates, they all needed me. I did my best, and I never gave up on any of them, Ori. I was just too young to do things right."

"You must have done something right," another voice answered from nearby. "Kofi trusts you with her children."

"Precious babies," the first voice said lovingly. "Did you see how quickly the eldest came to me?"

"I did, and you're right. He's not ruined. Just... perhaps a bit stained?"

"Imagine if Nori was a father. How could there be no hurts? But we're all of us stained, aren't we? Kíli might be the purest person I know, and look at everything surrounding him. The rest of us are as tarnished as this mountain."

An reached up to grip Mother Dori's tunic. "I am not ruined," he whispered, voice shaking and almost desperate.

"Hush, entlin," the older Dwarf crooned, rocking him. "You are home and safe. Dori is here."

An was aware of being laid in bed and sung to, and the next thing he knew it was morning and Mother Dori was sleeping at his side with an arm safely around him. Taking such pains with him. His heart swelled, and he knew he would do anything to prove this man's faith in him.

"Good morning."

He looked up to see a smiling face, and did his best to look open and not ruined. "Good morning, Mother Dori," he parroted back.

"Mother," the man repeated with a laugh. "Just call me Dori, entlin." An was crestfallen and something must have shut in his eyes, because Dori ran a hand through his hair. "Uncle is acceptable too."

"Uncle Dori?" An asked in a small voice.

Dori's smile was warm. "You are an excellent eldest brother, An. Will you trust me to take care of Tofi and Nyr?"  
An nodded, eager to show his trust.

"But I will need your help. There's so much to do to take care of children. No one can do it alone. That's why your mother asked me to help her, and that's why I need you to help me. Can you do that?"

"Yes, uncle Dori."

"Good lad. I will ask you when I need help. And when you need help, you can ask me."

An wanted to say that he would never ask, that he would never need help, that he was good enough. But Dori looked so hopeful. "I will ask, uncle Dori," he said, and was rewarded with a smil, and the man's hand ruffling his hair.

"Good lad," he repeated. "When we work together, we can do anything."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kofi wants to be a good mother, but she has absolutely no idea how to be and no support system. Bringing them to Dori is the best thing she can think to do for them, because she honestly thinks she's ruined An and will do the same to the others if she has them. This way, they have stability and she can still come and see them, and maybe learn how to properly be a mother.
> 
> Also, since Nori is recruiting the dragon generation for his spy network, this way she knows they're somewhere safe.


	34. Wedding Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fíli and Kirta's first meeting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning!** There is sexual content in this chapter. It is fairly mild, all things considered, but it exists. Why do I do these things?

Fíli had been moved into a suite of rooms as soon as the negotiation over his marriage started. Thorin had insisted. And though Thorin had moved into his childhood room, Dís and Dwalin shared a single room, and even Balin made do with a simple bedroom, they all agreed that Fíli and his bride should have a suite.

He had protested at first. Everyone in Erebor lived simply. He didn't want to be different. But then his mother had taken him aside.

"Skhatten," she said gently, holding his face in her hands, "she is leaving everything she knows to join her life to a man she has neither seen nor met. She is giving up her life for the good of her people. Do not make her give up her privacy as well."

Fíli stopped protesting. He thought of his mother in the same position, and started asking questions of the delegates from the White Mountains. They were hiding something from him, but that told him many things as well. And he started commissioning gifts to let her know she was welcomed and wanted.

Kíli sent him letters on the trip, telling him about Kirta. She was beautiful, or so his brother said. She was quiet and kept under strict supervision by her father. She was scared, one letter confided, but brave. Finally, from the very shadow of the mountain, came the letter that told him what had been hidden - she wanted to work with the metal of arms and armor, not the ones of jewelry.

He walked their suite one last time the next morning, straightening what needed it, and shifting things to be best displayed for her first sight of them. The walls of the rooms had thick tapestries on them, and bright carpets on the floor. The furniture of their sitting room had been made specially, the wood carved and polished to a smooth shine, and the cushioning thick and brocaded. Richly scented soaps and shampoos were in their bathroom. 

The nursery would be seen to at the proper time, and he left the door firmly closed. He would not remind her of that, or make her think it was the only value she had. The door to the small servant room was also left closed. Erebor was still rebuilding, and the royal family showed solidarity by living similarly to their people.

His bedroom had been straightened to the best of his ability. His weapons were neatly tended and away. The curtains on his bed were cleaned and tied back neatly. His clothes and personal belongings were in their places.

Her bedroom, of course, showed no signs of life. He'd specially commissioned everything in it, from the wall hangings to the furniture to the jewels in the carved wooden box on the vanity. Empty cosmetic bottles flanked the box, because he didn't know what scents and colors she favored. But the perfumer had insisted on making one up specifically as a wedding present, and that one sat back by the mirror. 

He pulled the curtains of her bed back to show the down filled pillows and duvet, and then wondered if he should have done that. He had heard about wedding nights from Bifur and Glóin, but neither of them could tell him what to expect or how to act. He didn't want to frighten her or hurt her, but the only one who could tell him about an arranged marriage was his mother, and he didn't want to ask her those questions.

By evening they were married. Fíli stayed close to her at the feast, trying not to be confining, but wanting to get to know her. He couldn't be Kíli, couldn't laugh and tease so easily, but he could watch and smile. He could compliment her as sincerely as possible and help her get to know the subjects who wanted to meet her as much as he did. When she smiled at the things he whispered to her, he felt more heroic than he had facing Orcs. When he tried to hide behind her from a particularly fussy adviser and she laughed, he felt as much pleasure as he had to hear Kíli call him brother.

They retired long before the feast and party were over, and cheers and jeers followed them out. Her hand trembled on his arm, and he covered it with his own. He looked down at her, but she kept facing forward, concentrating on learning the new corridors that he found familiar and comforting.

Her head turned between the several doors of the suite, and then she looked up at him. He hesitated for a moment, then led her to his bedroom. Let hers be her sanctuary - he wouldn't cloud it with thoughts or memories of things she might not relish.

"I cannot get out of this dress on my own," she said softly.

"Let me help you," he answered uncertainly, fingers moving to the long row of tiny buttons at her back. Before long, the fabric slipped off her shoulders to puddle at her feet. 

He knelt and helped her out of her shoes as well, and then looked up at her. She still had on her shift, but it was a light material that clung to her generous curves. She had wide hips - he had heard the delegates speak of how she would have easy births. She had a wide waist, showing her prosperity. She had firm, ample breasts. Her hair was a paler blond than his own, long and thick and intricately plaited. Her cheeks were rosy and round. Her lips were wide and red. Her eyes were dark blue and heavily lashed, and he almost gasped on meeting them.

The desire he felt looking at her must have been evident, because she dropped her gaze to the floor. Fingers twining nervously around each other, she spoke softly. "Fíli dômiro, I am new. Please be gentle with me."

It took him aback, and he was momentarily silent. "Mahila," he said, but that was too impersonal. "Sieva," he tried, but no, he couldn't just define her by her relationship to him. "Kirta," he finally gasped, and he wasn't so far gone that he didn't see her reaction to him saying her name. "Kirta," he repeated, voice softer and more gentle. "I haven't done this before either. We will have to learn together."

"I have brothers, dômiro," she said. "I know that things are different for girls."

He reached up and took her hands in his own. "I am not them," he promised. "I come to you clean of all others. My heart and body will belong to no other."

She met his eyes in confusion, and she looked so young to him. He wondered how his father had dealt with it all those years ago, and only then realized that he had thought of Lofar son of Ginnar and not Dwalin. But this was how his mother had come to her marriage bed more than eighty years previously. This fright and bravery could have been hers.

He rose and then bent to kiss her fingertips. "I hope you will be gentle with me as well." He pressed his lips to hers in a kiss that she returned.

"Don't promise me your heart," she said after, eyes still closed. "We don't even know each other."

Fíli pressed his forehead to hers, leaning in intimately close. "If you do not hold my heart, no other shall." He pressed he hands to his chest. "I am your husband. I am yours until the end of time."

She helped him out of his own clothes, and then they faced each other, bare as the day they were born. He knew he was reacting to her beauty, and there was some fear when her eyes darted down, but when he held a hand out she didn't pull away. And when he cupped a breast and stroked his fingers over her nipple, she closed her eyes and parted her lips in pleasure.

They took their time, and Fíli encouraged Kirta to explore as well. Her hands were warm on his body, and he shivered in turn. She responded to his kisses, pressed into his touch, and gasped when he used his tongue or teeth. It made him feel like a hero, fueled his desire, entered her deep into his heart.

When they got onto the bed, he didn't know, but there was nothing like it. The feel of her against him, all warm curves and yielding flesh, made him groan in passion and bury himself in her.

She cried out in pain and tears sprang to her eyes, and Fíli felt all his lust shrivel up. He moved away, mortified that he'd hurt her, and tried to sooth the tears away with his fingers and his lips. He lay apart from her until she turned and put herself in his arms, still shivering from renewed fear.

He stroked his fingers down her arms and pressed nuzzling kisses to her lips and throat until the shivering stilled and her arms tightened around him. It was small enough encouragement, but his moved his hands to her breasts and thighs, catching her gasps and moans with his mouth.

By the time they curled together to sleep, both had been sated. Fíli pulled Kirta close, dropping a kiss to her mussed hair. He was pleased that after everything she felt safe enough falling asleep in his arms. He would show her her room in the morning - there was no reason to move her. His bed would always be open to her, for whatever reason she needed it. She was his wife, to protect and care for, and to love and be faithful to. And he was a man who took his responsibilities seriously.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Khuzdul:  
> Skhatten: treasure  
> Dômiro: one of two words that means prince, specifically used for the crown prince  
> Mahila: my lady or princess  
> Sieva: wife
> 
> Using a number of sources (including Japanese, a bit of Hebrew, and Tolkien's own work), I have decided that my Dwarves put the honorific after the name. So when Kirta calls him 'Fíli dômiro' she is calling him 'prince Fíli.'
> 
> The other word for prince, if anyone is interested, is nasír. So, in this generation, there is Fíli dômiro and Kíli nasír. In the last generation, it was Thorin dômiro and Frerin nasír.


	35. Mirkwood Dungeon #5 - Kíli & Bifur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bifur's thoughts in imprisonment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Having not really written much in the last month (blame moving), here is something quite short to try and get the ball rolling again.

In his heart, Bifur knew that Kíli would do anything for him. So, while he enjoyed being in less pain than he had been in for years, and enjoyed feeling like his mind was fully his own again, he worried and tried to keep Kíli close. The price of his sanity shouldn't be taken from the flesh of his son.

Dwalin had made no demands, and Bifur had tentatively started to consciously think of Kíli as his own. And part of that was keeping him safe, or as safe as possible when they were in a prison and surrounded by Elves. He pushed Kíli back when their food was brought and kept himself between his son and the guards.

But there was nothing he could do when the golden prince of the wood came for him. Bifur sat and waited for his return, listening to gossip the guards thought he couldn't understand. He waited and he prayed, hoping Ríl could hear him, or Onur, that Kíli would return to him still the wide eyed, exuberant innocent that he had left as.

For once his prayers were answered, and Kíli was brought back to the cell with his eyes gleaming. He spent the evening nattering on about bows, and the difference between his and the Elf style one he had used at the practice range. Even when Bifur heard - something, he wasn't even sure what it was - and began signing slowly in the direction he thought Bilbo was watching from, Kíli kept talking. He was their shield as they did their best to work on escape.

He grew to trust that Legolas wouldn't hurt Kíli, but his mien one morning was different and Bifur held tightly to his son when he was called. Kíli laughed and gentled him as he'd gentle a pony pressing their heads together and murmuring soothingly to him. And then he was gone, and Bifur was glad of his new medicine, because his hands didn't shake as he waited.

He heard the guards before they were in the corridor, so he had already looked up by the time they turned the corner. And for a moment, despite how well his new medicine worked, he saw fire and the coarse laughter of the guards was guttural and low. He surged to his feet with a cry, eyes on the bowed head of his son - the second one he'd been unable to protect. He reached out as the door was opened, and Kíli was pushed roughly into his arms.

He held Kíli tightly and felt the youth's arms slide around him in return. He heard the whisper in Khuzdul - "I'm fine" - and he hated the Elven prince. Hated anyone who would force someone to trade their body for protection, and hated Legolas in specific for betraying the trust they had given him.

But then he brushed back the dark hair so he could see Kíli's eyes, and they were more than fine. He listened to his son tell him how Legolas was going to help them, and he heard the trust still in his voice.

Nevertheless, when they were released Bifur held Legolas' eyes until he got a nod in return. The prince knew that if they were betrayed he would not live to enjoy it. And he watched as they were not betrayed, and Kíli's grin gleamed in the half light of the cellar. So he thanked Legolas, because after two months in a prison, Kíli was still the boy who he had raised.


	36. Laughter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Laughing is something Bifur doesn't do anymore.

The first winter in the tiny northern settlement was hard. They had moved there in late autumn, and had little time to prepare. Thankfully, both Bofur and Bombur had easily found work. There were always openings in the mine - it was tiny and could only employ a few miners, but those usually came and went with the seasons. And the public house hadn't had an actual cook in years.

It was a mild winter, which meant that the passes never closed and everything stayed open. The trio was beyond thankful. Pay kept coming in, and they were able to get wood for the fire, food for the pot, and all the little things they needed for Kíli. The main merchant to come this far north met the baby first thing, and made sure he had a selection of cheap goods for them when he returned.

They didn't worry about clothes - not when he would grow so much by spring - but they made sure they had diapers, swaddling clothes, and blankets. They got a bottle, and made sure of a source of milk nearby. They even splurged on a few soft toys that they couldn't make themselves.

Kíli was a good baby. He slept through the night very young, and didn't mind that he spent almost every minute in one pair of arms or another. He always seemed happy, smiling and cooing at them all. But not all alike, because even small child as he was, he wanted most to be with Bifur and would sometimes fuss if he was taken away for too long.

Bifur was just as taken with him, and he held, cuddled, and fed Kíli as if the boy were his own. It worried Bofur and Bombur a little, because he wasn't theirs. The future could hold nothing but their loss of him, and if Bifur thought of him as a replacement of Onur....

But then they would look at their cousin, and see the sadness in his eyes, and they knew there was no chance of him forgetting. His lips would quirk sometimes, as if he wanted to smile at the baby, but he hadn't smiled in almost ten years. They held out little hope of it now, and were sorry for having to give Kíli that kind of life.

The baby spent the spring and summer in nothing but diapers, learning to crawl and exploring their cabin and then the settlement, Bifur firmly in tow. By the time he was a year old, he was strong and fast and knew the entire settlement. He had been in and out of all the homes. Everyone, even the most hardened, wanted some time with the baby. He had seen the flowers come, the birds and animals, and the apple trees at the edge of their land bear fruit.

Bombur picked apples that fall. They would make a nice addition to their diet, and he could turn them into applesauce, which would stay for months if stored right. They had begun giving Kíli food other than milk, and the new applesauce was his birthday treat.

His second winter was more difficult than his first. He had become accustomed to wandering as he pleased, and the change made him fuss. He had clothes this year, so that he could move freely, and he wasn't used to those either. His wide, dark eyes would fill with tears when he was prevented from leaving the cabin, and he ended up spending much of the season as he he spent the last one - in Bifur's arms.

When spring came again, so did the happy baby they were used to. Kíli watched the world waking up with wide eyed awe. He started talking, learned to eat everything they gave him, and filled the cabin with giggles and shrieks as Bofur played with and tickled him. And when he laughed, Bifur's eyes smiled, though the expression didn't touch his lips.

The merchant came through every month or so, and on one of his trips, he told the little boy that his Da drove a hard bargain. Kíli obviously didn't know what he meant, but he knew the man was talking about Bifur, and after that he started calling him Da. The first time he did, Bifur looked stricken. But he held Kíli close, and his mouth turned into the barest fraction of a smile.

His cousins held their breaths, but that was all it was. They didn't mind, though, because it was more joy than they had seen on him for years. And over the course of the next year, they grew used to the tiny smile that only Kíli could get out of him. He adored the boy who would follow him on unsteady legs, and smile wide, and call him Da.

It was the middle of summer and he was two and a half when he went missing. Bofur had a day off from the mines, so all three of them were frantic with worry. They scoured the settlement, but he wasn't with anyone else, so they shouted for him as they searched the woo nearby.

Finally, they heard a little voice call out "Da!" They ran over, and then stared.

Kíli had managed to lose his diaper and was completely naked where he sat in what was a mix of dirt and mud. He beamed up at them, covered in mud from top to toe. He had his hands buried in the pile in front of him and they could see where he'd been making mud pies with grass and nuts and flowers from around him. He had a hedgehog, a squirrel, and a curious looking sparrow around, picking through his pies for food.

"Da!" he repeated, and he proceeded to explain in a mangled mix of Khuzdul, Westron, and iglishmêk that he was a cook like uncle Bombur.

They all stared, and then Bifur threw his head back and roared with laughter. He laughed until he was crying, and then swooped down to gather Kíli into his arms, heedless of the mess. Kíli beamed and cooed at him, knowing nothing except that his Da was happy.

Bofur and Bombur followed them home, speechless and staring. They could see the humor, but were unable to laugh, and it felt for the time like they had switched. Bifur was smiling, and they were so happy that all they could do was stare.

Kíli was rewarded that night with thick slices of bread with all the butter he wanted. And Bofur carved him blocks with fanciful faces on them. He wasn't allowed out of their sight again, but it was as if a switch had been turned, and Bifur was able to smile again.


	37. Braids

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin considers his hair.

You could tell a lot about a Dwarf by what he chose to braid into his hair, or not braid in.

Balin and Dwalin didn't braid. They wanted to be underestimated by those they were up against, and those who mattered knew everything they would want to put in anyway.

Óin only used simple braids to prominently show that he was a doctor, making it easy for anyone in need to find him. His brother decorated his beard, as a successful smith should, but only braided the edges, curled under and wrapped as a family man.

Dori celebrated his brothers and sisters - he thought of the entire dragon generation as his own family - and the fussiness and set of them spoke of his ability to do just about any job put to him. Nori couldn't say much in his own braids. It would be folly to proclaim illegal deeds outright, and putting his family in his hair would only bring them danger. And that was what he told others who looked at him. Danger was in every twist of his hair. Ori had changed his braids since the quest. He had mastery now, and his braids proclaimed him scop and hero both.

Bifur's sorrow was there for people to read in his braids. Bofur simply showed he was a miner, and from a line of them. Bombur let others know that he was a cook, and a good one.

Kíli had only his family braids, but there were three different ones and he clung to all of them fiercely. Fíli had worn his Durin braids proudly since the day Thorin had out them there, and had never felt the need for more. Their mother wore a widow's braid, as was proper, though she lived with Dwalin as though married. She also displayed one for each son, completing them with gold, matching beads now that she could have two instead of the one.

And Thorin? He looked in the mirror, hair wet after his bath, but shining in a mostly black wave down his back. What could he announce without words?

He was the heir of Durin, and those braids were worn into his hair from the long years he had worn them. He was the king in Erebor, newer but still familiar. He looked at his reflection and ran his fingers through the rest of his long, unbound hair, before taking another lock of it.

He was the eldest of his family. He was brother to a brother long dead. He was brother to a living sister, an honor he wove in prominently. He was a smith, and a good one. He was a warrior, and had survived Azanulbizar. He was an Orc slayer. He was a master of Khuzdul and was relearning Sindarin.

This time, when he looked in the mirror his face was framed with many small braids. The beads that held them clicked together when he moved. It was a nostalgic sound and he saw the pain he felt mirrored in his sister's eyes where she had come into the room behind him.

"For a moment, I saw Frerin," she said, stepping close and laying her hands gently on his shoulders. "He would look like this now."

Thorin shook his head as Dís ran strong hands through his braids. "No, his would be perfect, well thought out, and arranged for a purpose."

"I see purpose in this," Dís said, tugging lightly at her braid and twisting it around the one for Frerin that was sitting next to it. "Your family, Thorin. We are your foremost braids, the things most important to you." She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and kissed the top of his head. "I have a drawing of the three of us. I kept it safe and hidden all these years. I will have a copy made for you, my brother."

Thorin put his hand over hers, momentarily silent. He turned his head, kissing her knuckles. When he looked up again, she was watching him, eyes tracked with love and sadness.

"How do you think," he asked, trying to distract her, "that he would braid his hair if he were still with us?"

Dís smiled at him in the mirror and ran her fingers through his braids once more. "He wouldn't have this one, first off," she said, pulling the clasp off the king's braid and unraveling it.

Thorin closed his eyes and smiled at the familiar sound of her voice and the sure touch of her hands. And if he thought he heard the lower tones of a boy on the cusp of manhood, caught between mischief and sobriety, none knew but him.


	38. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happened after Kíli ran from the room in Rivendell.

Fíli's words turned the room silent, and Ori felt himself detaching to observe - as he probably should have, but hadn't with the Trolls. Whatever happened next, this was history in the making and he needed to remember it.

The prince - should he say the older prince? - had his shoulders and jaw squared. He was facing this down like it was something to be defeated. Beyond him, Ori saw his own brothers, jaws slack with shock that he would have shared if he were allowing himself to feel.

Glóin was just as surprised. Óin, next to him, didn't have his ear horn and just looked politely confused. Or was he? There was a gleam in his eye that implied that he knew what was happening and knew why it was happening as well. Dwalin also seemed unsurprised, although Ori didn't have the skill to riddle out all of the emotions on the man's face.

Kíli turned lost eyes to his uncles, and Ori did as well. It was simple to read the guilt and anguish on their faces. Even Kíli could do that, and the confusion on his own slowly turned to betrayal. Finally, silently, he ran, a deer fleeing from wolves.

"Kíli!"

Dwalin was on his feet in an instant, wrestling Fíli back and growling at him, words others weren't meant to hear but that Ori did.

"He wasn't supposed to know."

"You wanted him to know too!" Fíli accused through clenched teeth, still struggling to get away. "To have him as we were meant to."

And as Dwalin replied, the longing and love of a father slotted neatly into place in Ori's understanding. "Yes, because he's clearly yearning for brotherhood. You think of no one but yourself, boy."

Listening to them with one ear, Ori watched as Bofur slipped by to follow Kíli. His own brothers began demanding answers, but Bombur had turned his focus firmly on the fire, and Bifur only moved across the room to pick up and cradle the fallen clasp.

Fíli glared at him, making the man cringe down, holding the thing that belonged to Kíli close to his heart. Dwalin swatted the youth, growling that he had better mind his manners, or the older man wouldn't stand between him and Thorin when the king found out.

"When I find out what?"

The room stilled again, and everyone turned their eyes to their leader. Thorin's eyes passed over the group and grew darker as he figured out what was going on. Finally he turned to look at Fíli, who gazed back defiantly.

"What were you told?" he demanded.

"You don't understand!" Fíli exclaimed. "How can you know how I feel to know that _my brother_ is alive and here? It's not right to keep us apart!"

Thorin's expression was tightly controlled rage, and Ori almost missed the heartsick pain at the center of it. "Do you hear, Dwalin?" he said, and despite earlier words the warrior stepped between his king and prince. "I cannot understand the pain of losing a brother. I do not know what it means to go to bed one night expecting that he will be there the next day only to find him _twisted and dead_ , never to come back."

Dwalin remained where he was, but everyone else was inching back from the fury that faced them. Fíli, realizing that he had said exactly the wrong thing, was white faced.

"What _you_ have failed to understand is what it means to be a brother at all. You are the elder. You must consider your brother's safety. As a prince or as a brother, you must think of others' needs more than your own! Here we are in a place where we may not be safe, having just been _hunted like animals_ , and you feel it is a safe place to announce a secret that has been kept for almost eighty years? You are a _fool_! You are--"

Unable to find words through his emotion, or in control enough that he didn't want to say them, Thorin turned on his heel and strode out of the room. Bilbo once again proved his bravery by following.

It was quiet again, and with the news broken already, Dwalin began to explain what had happened. Ori only partially listened, knowing he could get the full story any time he wanted. Instead, he kept watching Fíli, whose legs had given out under him as soon as his uncle had gone. He was on the floor, both hands covering his face, and from the shaking of his shoulders, he was weeping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I spent a lot of time the last few days putting everything together and I have a _timeline_!
> 
> ....Is anyone else excited about this? Probably not. But it means that I actually know (and not just generally in my head) when things take place, what everyone should be able to refer to, and what characters are up to at many different times!
> 
> I'm willing to share if there's actually anyone interested. (If not, it will remain just for me.)


	39. Shades of Grey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gimli's world has always been black and white: right or wrong, good or evil, friend or foe. Nothing about Kíli fits.

It had been almost half a year since he'd gotten to Erebor, and Gimli was just as amazed at it as he had been that first day. It was just so big compared to what they had left, so shining and full of everything good. And all his family was there with him, including a new cousin.

Well, he wasn't exactly new, since he was older than Gimli, but he had just been discovered.

Although a lot of people apparently knew about him. They had just _found_ \--

It was complicated. But Kíli was his cousin, the son of Dís and Dwalin. Although Dís was a widow. Gimli wasn't sure what Dwalin was doing making a child with a respectable widow. What had he been thinking? Gimli would never do anything that immoral.

Maybe that was what made Kíli so strange. Gimli wanted to admire him. He'd been the one to kill Smaug. He was the greatest hero of Erebor. And he was a hard worker - if something needed doing, Kíli was there with a smile and a helping hand.

But that couldn't change the fact that he didn't hold his family in the proper reverence. There was nothing Gimli was more proud of than his family ties. He wasn't the smith his father was, the diplomat his mother was, the healer his uncle was, or the warrior either cousin was, but he had the promise that they would all help him be what he could be. He had ties to the throne of Erebor and was only five generations from the direct line of Durin, which really wasn't much in the greater scheme of things. Gimli wore the proper braids in his hair. He named his parents and cousins with pride. One day he knew he would get that respect.

But Kíli did none of that. Oh, he had braids, of course. But they included one for a line of poor commoners, so far removed from Durin that they weren't even Longbeards. He was _friends_ with commoners and seemed to prefer their company to the returning nobility, where Glóin and Hida made sure their children got to know others of their own class.

The worst was that Kíli called one of the paupers who had raised him "Da." It made no sense to Gimli. With parents and a line to be proud of, why would he choose nobodies? He even lived with them and not in the palace. How could he be as beloved as he was? Fíli adored him and was following into a love of those who weren't of the same level. Dwalin and Dís were as proud of him as anything. And Thorin had named him second in line for the throne!

Gimli tried to spend time with Kíli. Everyone loved him - his family, the common and noble people of Erebor, even the Men who lived in Dale. And with everything, Gimli wanted to understand why, even if it meant spending time with commoners or bastards.

Kíli was at the practice range. (A bow. Gimli had wondered what kind of Dwarf used a bow until the first time he saw his cousin hunt.) Gimli approached, hearing voices and laughter and wondering which of Kíli's young archers were there with him.

It was none of them, and Gimli's shock was audible enough to stop the pair and make them turn.

"What are you doing shooting with an Elf?" he demanded.

Kíli sighed. "Legolas, this is my cousin Gimli, Glóin's son. Gimli, this is my friend Legolas, prince of the Greenwood."

As if that was supposed to explain anything. "He's an Elf!"

"Am I?" the Elf asked, eyes wide with mocking, fake surprise. "I thought I had just grown too much."

Gimli glared as Kíli snickered and the Elf turned to him. "Kíli, does this mean I wait in vain for my beard to come in?"

"A beard would only hinder your shooting," Kíli pointed out, rubbing a hand over his own stubble. His eyes darted to the Elf and he gave a teasing smile. "You're bad enough without the excuse."

The Elf laughed, golden, liquid laughter. Gimli tensed against the sound of it. He was supposed to hate Elves, but how could he hate someone who laughed so freely and so beautifully?

Confused, he stepped back. Kíli's strangeness was contagious. "You shouldn't befriend our enemies," he accused.

"The Greenwood is our ally," Kíli answered, looking confused as well. "And Legolas is a good and true friend, who aided us when we were in danger."

And now he confused things more. Why were things never clear around Kíli like they were supposed to be? Suddenly he needed to be away from this place. He could feel his understanding of the world start to shift, and he couldn't let that happen.

He ran, but it didn't stop him from hearing the Elf ask "is he all right?" in a tone as concerned as anyone.

A prince was also a commoner. An Elf could laugh with a voice as beautiful as music. Despite himself, Gimli's world tipped just slightly into shades of grey.


	40. A Real Man Can Play With Girls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bifur takes his granddaughter to a mother-daughter event.

Bifur realized there was a problem as soon as the door was opened. The room it led to was filled with women and girls, with not another man in sight. They were mostly of the noble class, although a number of Dori's girls were there, the older ones looking out for the younger ones.

Quite a few of them looked uncertain at his presence, although he thanked everything that there was no fear on any face. A few were outright hostile. Even after almost thirty years, the prominence of a trio of paupers from a line other than Durin's sat badly with some of the old nobility of Erebor.

They were graciously let in, but Hida looked down at the newly ten Iren.

"You were supposed to bring your mother, dear."

"Mama is busy," Iren piped. "And Grandma is with Thael."

"You have another grandmother."

Iren's hand tightened around his own and the small girl's lip began to tremble. She didn't have the words for it, but she was starting to be old enough to realize that her other grandmother had no patience for her. Reban hadn't married for love, and had little interest in her own children and less in her grandchildren.

Dís hurried forward and knelt in front of them. "Khaban, you know I would come with you too," she said in a gentle sing-song, reaching her arms out.

"I want someone just for me!" Iren wailed, clinging to Bifur.

"Khim hun," Bifur said, gathering her into his arms. He stroked her dark hair, shushing her as gently as he could while she clung to him.

"We're going to do things men aren't interested in," Hida pointed out once Iren was calm again.

"He doesn't even look like he belongs here," someone else muttered.

"I don't," Bifur agreed in Khuzdul. He saw some haughtily pleased expressions from the corner of his eye as he looked down at Iren, who looked like she was going to cry again. "Look at their color and scent," he pointed out. "Everyone here is in a pretty dress except for me."

Iren and most of the girls giggled, and at least half of the matrons smiled indulgently. Ash blonde Thael dashed forward to give her own silver tiara to her darker cousin and Iren placed it carefully on her grandfather's mostly white hair.

Before long, the girls had Bifur in a makeshift skirt and were teaching him about make up and perfume. He listened carefully and put on as much enthusiasm as he could manage while mothers and older sisters helped the younger ones to properly coordinate.

Here, at least, he wasn't useless. His leather working had taught him much about color theory and what matched nicely. Once the girls had finished playing with him, he helped Iren pretty herself up.

There were tea and pastries afterward, and the girls were instructed in proper manners an small talk. Bifur sat with them and drank and ate. He corrected manners when he noticed, and allowed the girls to correct his when they were wrong.

And through it all, Iren stayed at his side and smiled Kíli's smile. It wasn't so bad a thing to play girls' games if it made his granddaughter that happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Iren is Kíli and Vedyn's younger child. Thael is the second of Fíli and Kirta's 4. She's a few years older than Iren. Kirta couldn't come with Thael because she recently had a very bad childbirth that she's recovering from.
> 
> And while Bifur was entertaining the younger girls, several of the mothers took some of the older girls (in their 20s) to tell them about puberty and sex and marriage and childbirth and all that stuff girls reaching puberty need to know about.
> 
> Khuzdul:  
> Khaban - gem  
> Khim hun - she is young


	41. New Erebor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things in Erebor are both the same and different.

Having regained their home - a thing that seemed miraculous to all of them - the Dwarves of Erebor set themselves to reclaiming everything that could be called their own. Everything. The mining and forging skills that had been lost, the sense of asthetics, food, clothes, games.

Everything.

They learned to use the mining equipment: the railed carts, the baskets raised and lowered, the secret ways Erebor's mines used to ensure there were no gas explosions.

They learned the forges: the huge furnaces that were always hot and the pipes that brought their heat all over the mountain, the clockwork hammers - huge, for creations that took more than mortal power - the finest chisels and glasses for work on gems and jewelry.

They surrounded themselves with Dwarf ideals of beauty: intricate, geometric designs, mosaics in the color of gems, a people increasingly round and well fed, fine braids to let all know their pride.

They were able to become proud warriors once more, using Dwarf made weapons that didn't have to be sold to pay for food.

And yet....

After a dozen years, the split between those who had spent the exile among other Dwarves can the Iron Hills or White Mountains and all the others was increasingly shown.

Craftsmanship had changed. Where before everything was done in clean lines and angles, it was not unusual now to see a graceful curves drawing the eye among the lines. Instead of pure geometry and cirth runes, images were being used in art - trees and flowers, the lines of mountains and mines, the glow of the Arkenstone and the sunrise. Things learned from Elves and Men made their way into the look of Dwarf goods.

And while many returned to working stone, metal, and gems, the marketplace was filled with those who still worked pottery, wood, leather, and cloth. They were not traditional Dwarf crafts, but those in exile had grown used to them. They felt more capable of judging the value of dishes made of stoneware than those made of stone.

To a people that had lived impoverished for a generation, a delicate but finely crafted item was worth more than thick bands of gold encrusted with jewels that did nothing but show off wealth. But it was more than that. Those who had gone far to the east in that 120 years brought back ideas on beauty that at first seemed strange to those who had stayed in the west. The idea that imperfections made something beautiful seemed laughable.

But when they thought about it, it was something that the Dwarves of Erebor had discovered for themselves already. The way the patina of use on favorite dishes made them shine. The way colors on a mended shirt shone when the thread was slightly off color. The character tools got as they were used, when you learned their imperfections.

Erebor embraced this concept. It didn't mean that they stopped striving for perfection. Nor did it mean that every flawed work of a raw apprentice was considered art. But masters found themselves throwing out fewer of their mistakes, and in the mountain some of those works brought more money than technically perfect pieces that showed no character.

Those who had fled to safety among other Dwarves couldn't understand this. They found that there was much they couldn't understand, and that the royal family gave them little tolerance for turning their noses up at the new ways.

In Old Erebor, clothing had been ample and brightly colored - jewels tones and golden embroidery. Now, everyone was used to more practical styles, and the colors favored were pale, or greyed. Pale yellows that hinted at gold, greyed purples that spoke of years of love, darks reds more the color of garnets than rubies.

And increasingly, Erebor was drawn to the colors favored by Hobbits - clean white, grass green, the golden brown of new baked bread, the delicate blue-violet of forget-me-nots.

The Hobbits! Never was a source of conflict so unexpected! The Hobbits had come and everyone had welcomed them. They brought needed food to the mountain, and income from trade of that food. But as time went on, they had turned into one of the largest soures of contention. They owned the mountain valley, as they had been promised. They paid taxes, of course, but there were those who missed the rent money they would have gotten.

They were named and counted on the giant census scrolls. They called themselves citizens of Erebor with pride. But they were not Dwarves, and there were those who were angry that they were allowed.

Some objected to their numbers. In the ten years since they had come to the mountain, they had more than tripled in number and were nearing 350. Most scoffed, as there were over 6000 Dwarves, and what kind of comparison was that? But when Anise Miller began working in the big, public kitchens and Dwarves and Hobbits began courting those detractors shouted their anger to whoever would listen.

When Kirta - crown princess - came to the feast given in honor of a decade of Hobbits living in Erebor wearing Hobbit style skirts and bodice, it both brought that style into prominence among the younger generation and fanned the flames of controversy.

And worst of all, the Hobbits were learning Khuzdul. Anise and Bombur both shouted orders in it over the noise of the kitchen crew. Those who came to market cried their wares in it. Children playing underfoot with young Dwarves screamed it while laughing.

Khuzdul! Beloved, sacred language, and thus the most important fight. It wasn't to be learned by outsiders - the basis for much of the argument around the Hobbits. And it wasn't supposed to change. That was the reason it had always been taught second.

But Kíli had known it as long as he had known Westron, and when children tugged his sleeves and asked for words, he never denied them. And so the children, especially those whose parents were the dragon generation who held nothing sacred, combined their Khuzdul and Westron to create a new language that was in between.

When Onur was heard happily calling Bifur "stôrda" - a combination of the Khuzdul word for great and the Westron Da - instead of "afi" or even plain "grandpa," it finally came to Thorin.

And at that point, what could he do? For himself, he thought it all a sign of his kingdom and people prospering. But he knew he needed to keep his nobles - many of whom felt increasingly out of place in the bustle of the remade Erebor - from turning away.

In the end, after taking council with Balin for hours and creating and discarding dozens of plans, he asked them to lead their people and help teach Khuzdul properly.

And when, within months, the majority of the restless nobility was dressed in the newly popular colors and chattering in "new" Khuzdul with Hobbit venders, Thorin turned away before he smiled, and didn't let himself feel too triumphant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This started as a very simple piece about how Dori's children were spreading "new Khuzdul" (which in my head will always be called "Dwarf Yiddish") and not everyone liked it.
> 
> Then it occurred to me that the Dwarves would have grown to appreciate the Japanese concept of _wabi_ , or beauty in a flaw or seeing beauty in the fleeting moment. And then it spiraled out of control.
> 
> I'm also not sure if this is a finished form or if I need to make this smoother. Or perhaps I should just accept its wabi.


	42. Wild

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Under all of his carefully cultivated culture, there is a wildness in Dori that bides its time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently, I was mistaken. I was listening to a song, and it occurred to me that it was how Dori felt about his mother. So we get to see Iari one more time, that night or perhaps the next, after Nori's threat.
> 
> SherlockedinErebor wanted Dori to be able to confront her. Here it is.

There was a scratching kind of knock from the back door. Dori wouldn't have heard it if he hadn't been sitting in the kitchen waiting for the bread to finish. He loved his sarkâni, but keeping them fed was a large task. He looked up from his papers - the reports the older dragons often gave him to distill down for Nori - and considered what he should do.

Deciding in the end that someone with evil intent wouldn't have knocked to ask entrance, he made sure he had one of the heavy bladed cleavers in one hand and opened the door.

He almost didn't recognize her, and when he did it was only with regret that she looked like his brothers. She simpered at him, and he felt a dragon open up one eye inside him.

"What do you want, mother?" he asked, keeping his voice low, because the children were asleep. Ori was asleep. And if there was one thing he was sure of, it was that this woman wouldn't even get a glimpse of his youngest brother.

"I have to want something to see my darling boy?"

The dragon snorted smoke out its nose, but Dori didn't even let his eyes narrow. He hadn't seen her for most of a century and she was trying to claim she didn't need a reason to seek him out? When he remembered the only time she'd ever called Nori her darling boy, and that was because he gave her money, he had a strong idea what this was all about.

"You don't abandon your 'darling boy,'" he said, then cursed himself for letting her in. The accusation would mean nothing to her. She was beyond shaming. But it let her know that she could still affect him, and he should never let her know that. The dragon in his breast had fully woken and was shaking its shoulders.

"Come, Dori," she chided, sounding like she was correcting a young child, "you are the last piece of my beloved husband in this world. Of course you're my darling."

"No," he said flatly, and continued before she could say anything and before more than a flicker of doubt could cross her face. "As long as Nori lives, I am not the last of him." And considering what she had done, how dare she claim the signs of love and widowhood she'd braided into her hair and beard?

Her face twisted into a scowl at the mention of his brother. "He's nothing of me, and nothing of your father," she spat. "He's a twisted little dragon, like the rest of them. They are nothing but need and greed. Like calls to like. No wonder the dragon came. Look at what they've done to you! Plaguing you all your life because they knew they could get things from you. And now, what have they given you in return? Unwanted bastard brats, that's all."

The dragon unfurled its wings, and Dori could feel the fire leave his mouth when it opened. He had grown used to her neglect of him and her disgust with Nori, but to spread that bile to try and damage is sarkâni was inexcusable.

"Oh yes," he hissed, keeping his voice down because he would be damned if any of his children learned of her, "and you know the first unwanted bastard brat that was left with me?" She was looking smug, thinking she'd turned him, and he couldn't let that happen. "Ori."

Ori, who he had saved every penny for. Ori, who he had taken any odd job for, no matter how little it paid. Ori, who he would have happily starved to feed and clothe and teach. Dori had never learned a trade because he couldn't afford it for himself, but he had managed to afford it for Ori. And he would do it again. Oh yes. Without a thought. Without a moment of hesitation he would raise his baby brother and give him everything he had ever wanted for himself, or for the others who were his brothers and sisters in all but blood.

The woman took a step back and the venom in his voice, and he stepped out of the door to follow her. The dragon in him wouldn't let her escape.

"From the time the dragon came, there was always someone more important to dedicate my life to, and it was never you, mother." His voice was rising, the dragon roaring with anger and past any control. "You and the others created the dragon generation, and there was nothing I could do to stop you hurting them. I was too young, and I had nothing. But now I am no longer young, and I have everything I could ever hope for. So when my brothers and sisters, the dragons you spat on and despised, bring me children they have given more love than they were ever shown, I will give them everything."

She cowered against the wall of the next house and he stood over her, the braids he lovingly put into his hair to represent Nori and all of his age mates and the children he had been gifted by those who loved him showing prominently in the mixture of light and shadow outside the kitchen door. He sneered down at her, the woman who hadn't really been a mother to him since he had been twenty, the woman who had his own pale eyes and his brothers' long nose, the woman who had braided her bone white hair to make herself look like an object of pity.

"And I will give you nothing," he snarled. "I owe you nothing. The only things of any value I ever got from you were my brothers, and that was a gift I have had to spend my life paying for. No, mother--" His voice caught on the word. "No, _Iari_ , you will get nothing from me, now or ever."

He turned on his heel, forcing back the desire for her blood. It wasn't worth it. As he reached the doorway he paused, looking back over his shoulder at where she still stood. "If you ever loved anything the way I love my brothers, or the bastard brats I'm raising - my sarkâni, my baby dragons - then you would understand me. But you don't, and I don't think you ever have."

He closed the door firmly behind himself and locked it. He checked on the bread, glad to find it hadn't burnt, and sat back to continue his reading.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Poe - Wild](http://youtu.be/xu3OadpCYiM)
> 
> Khuzdul:  
> Sarkâni - young dragon
> 
> See, the convention of making something young by adding "-ling" to the end of it makes me twitch. Yes, duck/duckling, goose/gosling. But cat/kitten, dog/puppy, cow/calf, man/child. I could go on and on, but really it's just a personal peeve and nothing against people who like or use that convention. I just can't call them dragonlings, so I needed to make a specific term.


	43. To be Brothers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kíli knows how brotherhood is supposed to look. Fíli thinks differently.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a birthday present for Susangel. (Technically I should wait to post this untitled he 11th, but that's SIX WHOLE DAYS AWAY and I'm not good at waiting.)

It was July, and hot enough to scorch even without being out in the sun practicing sword work. In the end, there was only so long Fíli and Kíli could work on it before they collapsed - stripped down to their trousers and sweat dripping from them - into the long grass of one of Beorn's fields. They lay side by side in silence, breathing slowly returning to normal as they watched the clouds slip by overhead and Beorn's fist sized bees buzz past on their way to flowers or hives.

Kíli was completely relaxed. He knew he could roll and have one of Fíli's swords in his hands quickly and that the other one was close by the other Dwarf's hand. But Beorn's home was safe, and the uninterrupted buzzing of the bees enabled him to lie bonelessly on the ground. It was comfortable, lying next to each other after the exertion of practice. It was nice to be silent with his friend.

Except Fíli wasn't his friend, he recalled abruptly. With all the hardship in the mountains, it had almost gone out of his mind. Fíli was his brother, and he still had worries that hadn't been aired. He glanced over at Fíli, who had small smile on his face and blue eyes closed into the warm wind that stirred through the grass.

But how if this all meant something completely different to Fíli? His brother's expectations terrified him.

"Fíli," he said, and his voiced wavered so much that he could see his brother grope for his sword even as he turned. "I don't know if I can do this."

"Your sword work is fine," Fíli said, hand dropping back to the ground. "You're just new at it."

Kíli shook his head, sweat matted hair tangling around his neck and shoulders. "My uncles-- Bofur and Bombur are brothers. I know how brothers are supposed to act together. I don't know if I can." His eyes were wide, emotions always too close to the surface, and he buried his face against Fíli's shoulder.

There was a long silence, and then Fíli's muscles shifted under Kíli and a warm hand carded through his hair.

"Bofur and Bombur don't act like Balin and Dwalin," Fíli said after a longer silence. His voice was soft and warm, close and so affectionate that Kíli wanted to cry. "And Balin and Dwalin don't act like Dori, Nori, and Ori." He laughed and Kíli could feel the breath of it stir his hair. "And the brotherhood between the three of them is never the same from one moment to the next. Thorin and Ma are different from all of them."

He reached out and tipped Kíli's head up to meet his eyes. They were smiling with so much love that Kíli could hide in them, and needed to hide from them. "We'll figure it out together," Fíli finished. "But I think we're doing fine as we are."

They stayed out in the field most of the afternoon, silently laying side by side and watching the clouds slide past overhead, fingers twisted together in between them.


	44. Meetings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kirta and Vedyn meet each other and the extended "family."

The new princess' father stayed a full week before he left. In that time, there were feasts every night and the mountain was displayed in its recovering glory. It was a time when everyone in the kingdom presented a united front against the intruder, and for a week everyone was equal.

The day he left, Kíli came to Vedyn's workshop.

"We're going to get together and meet Kirta properly tonight. You'll come, won't you? She'll be more comfortable with another young woman there, I think."

Vedyn frowned at him. "So this has nothing to do with the fact that I've never met your family?"

He looked flabbergasted and that comforted her slightly. "You haven't met them?" he repeated.

"No, Kíli. You never saw fit to introduce me." She hadn't told her family about him, but she wasn't royalty.

He grabbed her hands. "Then you _have_ to come!"

She left her hands comfortably in his. "I don't have the clothes to meet royalty."

"You never worry about that with me."

"You come to my workshop." He bit his lip in worry and she almost sighed. "Of course I'll come."

His smile bloomed and she fell again.

He met her before the guards could question her presence, greeting her with a kiss and probably starting more rumors than were already circulating about them. She was led to a room that should have been crowded - that would have been crowded anywhere but Erebor. She counted more than twenty, with room for at least double that number to meet comfortably.

"This is Vedyn," Kíli announced to the room at large, one arm comfortably around her shoulders.

Every eye turned to her, and it was all Vedyn could do not to shrink into Kíli's side with the force of it. After a moment there was a soft sigh from an older man with a long, white beard.

"I had hoped Kíli could make a diplomatic marriage as well."

Kíli tensed next to her, and Vedyn brought one hand up to rest on his shoulder out of everyone's sight. Several others were frowning as well.

"It's not that easy to arrange a good marriage, Balin," said the king himself.

"Yes," agreed another. "It worked poorly enough for Dís. Why do that to Kíli? Bad enough we had to make Fíli--"

"I am the product of that marriage!" Vedyn hadn't noticed the crown prince until that moment. "And I will thank you not to speak of my wife in that manner."

The woman was next to him, eyes cast down and lips tight. Vedyn assumed it was to keep them from trembling. Weakness was not a thing to show here and now. There was silence otherwise, and the speaker had the grace to look contrite.

"My match, and Fíli's, were not bad ones." The woman darted her glance to everyone, lingering nowhere. "I will hear nothing against them." She turned to the old man who had brought it up in the first place. "But Kíli is the child of passion. I would have him make his own choice for passion."

"As you wish, of course," the man said with a slight bow. "Still, a disappointment."

"Don't listen to him." The one who had whispered to them was Dwalin, the son of the great warrior Fundin and a warrior in his own right, the lover of princess Dís, and Kíli's father. "I'm sure we'd all like to meet this girl of yours."

Vedyn felt the muscles of Kíli's shoulder loosen as they both turned to look at the man. And then Kíli's eyes flickered and there was a nod and Dwalin moved to Dís' side.

The first person she was brought to meet was an older Darf who was easily recognizable as one of the heroes of Erebor. With his salt and pepper hair and the Orc axe stuck in his head, no one could say they didn't know who he was.

"Da, this is Vedyn."

And it was his Da. The Da he adored. She gripped his sleeve and lowered her voice. "I don't know Khuzdul, Kíli."

Before he could do more than look surprised, a softly lyrical voice spoke from behind them. "I do. I will help."

They turned and were face to face with the new princess. "Kirta!" Kíli said with a familiar, exuberant smile. Vedyn felt her lips thin with jealousy.

"You haven't seen your family in months. Go be with them. We'll be fine."

Kíli kissed Vedyn's lips and Kirta's plump cheek and then moved away to fling himself at another woman. Her smile was close to being his, so she had to be his mother.

The two young women sized each other up before Kirta turned to Bifur and curtsied. "I have heard much of you, and I am pleased to meet you now."

"You've heard of him?"

"Kíli often talks of the ones he loves," Kirta said coolly, voice and expression a challenge.

"Yes, and he's told me of his Da," Vedyn answered, unable to keep from being riled. "His Da taught him leatherwork and is very good at it." He'd made no claim there, but Kíli loved it too much to be taught by someone who didn't feel similarly.  
Bifur smiled and said nothing, just held a hand out to each of them.

"I would do anything for his smile," she said as she gripped the man's hand tightly. She didn't need anyone's approval, but if there was one she wanted it from, this was the man.

He met her eyes, and the smile didn't fade. She gave a sigh of relief, and looked over at Kirta.

"Fíli-dômiro has been very good to me," she said softly, slow to take the offered hand. "And I will do my duty to him, and to Erebor--"

Bifur took a step and wrapped both of her hands in his own, leaving Vedyn with her arms hanging. He whispered to the girl, words Vedyn wouldn't have been able to understand even if she heard them. She remembered what Kíli had said and knew he wanted her to be a friend to the new princess.

"Would you introduce me?" she asked, knocked their shoulders lightly. "I know the princes are close, and I want to know Kíli's brother."

Kirta look slightly startled at the touch, but smiled at Vedyn. "Yes, of course." She bowed respectfully over Bifur's hands and then the two turned to where Fíli was chatting and laughing with others. She glanced at Vedyn a few times, but was silent until they arrived. "Dômiro."

He looked pained. "Please, Kirta. Call me Fíli." His eyes skipped to Vedyn. "You as well. If you are who Kíli has his heart set on, you must call me Fíli." He gave a quick bow which Vedyn returned, wishing she had some of Kirta's grace.

"Let me present Dori, Nori, and Ori," he continued, gesturing to the ones he was talking to.

Vedyn looked them over, easily recognizing the man who had threatened her. She raised a brow at him and he returned the gesture without a change of expression. The others she recognized as well. "Do all the heroes who retook the mountain stand as family?" she asked. "I know they aren't part of the king's family."

"The family you get over time may be better than the one you are born to," Fíli said, answering her question but only looking at Kirta.

Vedyn snorted, trying to draw attention away from the other girl. "Than I can expect to be surrounded by this lot all my life. Might have been nice to know when Kíli started paying court."

"Most would recognize their prince," Nori said dryly.

"Yes? Then perhaps most would be pleased to better their station. I thought of nothing but Kíli." Vedyn's tone was a trifle belligerent, but it was a pointed statement. She needn't have worried, because her statement was met with smiles.

She pretended not to notice when the prince leaned down to murmur "Do you think of me, Kirta?" Or when the other girl looked up, blue eyes meeting blue and answered "I am learning to, Fíli."

Fíli's smile was blinding, and Vedyn thought that if this was the family she gained it wasn't a bad thing.


	45. Mother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fíli meets the Ered Luin contingent on the road.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to write fluff because all the shorts are depressing. But this didn't come out quite fluffy either.

"Mother!"

The shout caused heads to turn all around them, but the golden hair shining in the sun made Dís leap to her feet.

"Mother!"

And this time she could hear the joy ringing through his voice. He rode easily, one hand raised to wave vigorously at them. Beside her, there was a sigh of relief and Dís turned to glare.

"You told me he was fine."

"And he is," the Hobbit insisted, gesturing.

She could have continued. If Bilbo was that relieved, her son couldn't have been fine when he left. And if that was so, what else was he keeping from her? She could have pursued the subject. She would have. Except that Fíli was reining in in front of her and she had no eyes for anything but the son who had left her a year ago.

"Mother," he said once more, eyes alight as he lifted her and spun her, then hugged her hard.

"Skhatten," she murmured, hugging back. She pulled away to look at him, noting the difference in how his eyes focused, but they were both on her and he had ridden well so it had to be healed well enough for him to function.

"We've been waiting for you to get here," he said, irrepressible in his glee as she couldn't remember him being since he was tiny. "We have the best treasure for you."

"All I need is you, Fíli. You're the greatest treasure I have."

Her smile was only slightly forced as she thought of the treasure she didn't have, the baby entrusted to strangers. Perhaps now that they had Erebor they would be able to build enough strength to bring him home. But until then there was nothing she wanted but her family.

Fíli smiled at her and hugged her again. "The greatest treasure," he repeated, nuzzling against her hair. "I missed you," he whispered so only she could hear it.

She hugged him back, because how could she explain how much she had missed him?


	46. Dragon's Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dwalin waits for the dragon to come.

There was a dragon coming. A dragon who still haunted his nightmares more nights than he cared to think about. A dragon who had slaughtered hundreds of his people in moments and who had rendered them homeless wanderers for four generations of Men.

There was a dragon coming and it was all Dwalin could do not to fall to the ground gibbering in fear.

There was a dragon coming, and his son couldn't come to safety because he was their only hope against it.

He had long grown accustomed to the fact that life was unfair to him. He had lost his home to a dragon, more than he cared to admit at Azanulbizar, his only love to a political marriage, his son to another for the sake of safety. But to be in a position where that son was in danger and he couldn't do anything about it was intolerable.

If he could have, he would have taken his axes and leapt onto the beast as it showed its face. He would have buried them both in the worm's bright eyes and destroyed it before it could turn its fire on his son.

But there was no chance of that working, and he wouldn't throw his life away so stupidly. He moved in close to Kíli - close but not confining - and noticed Bifur doing the same. He wanted to hate it but he couldn't. Kíli was Bifur's son as well, in many ways more so than he was Dwalin's. He looked over to Bifur and shared a nod of perfect understanding.

Kíli looked up as they reached him, wide eyed and obviously frightened. "You should go where it's safe," he said, eyes darting between them.

"And leave you alone out here?" Dwalin answered, snapping out the words before he could turn coward and run away with his tail between his legs. It was worth the surety of death to see how Kíli's body eased and his face lightened.

Dwalin looked up into the sky, waiting for the dragon to come. He eased closer to his son, placing a hand gently against the youth's back. Controlling himself and readying his body for battle was second nature, but the adrenaline of this preparation was likely to go unneeded. What could he do against Smaug?

All he could do was be prepared for the moment Kíli shot. He swept both of the others into his arms, spinning to press them into the ground while he braced himself above them - poor cover against fire, but anything that would protect them was worth it.

Bifur stared beyond his shoulder. There was a long moment, during which Dwalin trembled from the expectation of fiery death, and then the other man cried out. He gripped Dwalin's shoulder and pushed at him to get him to turn.

The dragon's flight had faltered. Dwalin fell back into the arms of Kíli and Bifur and watched. Flame blew out of the dragon's mouth straight up in the air as he writhed in a strange sort of dance and then fell.

The dragon fell. With one arrow, in one moment, the greatest monster of Dwalin's adolescent nightmares was gone. Kíli shook him and spoke, but Dwalin couldn't hear past the sound of wind rushing through his ears. He stared, not quite able to believe what had just happened.

The dragon was dead. Erebor was theirs.

The dragon was dead. Their people had been avenged.

The dragon was dead. The creature that haunted Dwalin's days and nights was gone.

The coiled anticipation in his chest unknotted all at once, and Dwalin buried his face in his hands and cried.


End file.
